And then I sang,
and they listened
In a room where the faint smell of cigarettes
lingered above a muggy June carpet
and outside, wet pavement breathed
underneath red taillights,
and green trees lined the road
as fog hung low in a purple grey sky.
I felt like I could both laugh, and cry at how you were there too,
aching in my chest, proud and happy.
And I just wish you had told me where you used to have to go everyday.
Because tonight, my voice cracked on the first high note
of the chorus I wrote,
wavering and slightly unsure.
Parts of me scared
but I stayed, and the tone evened out, as I held on and it eased in,
and everyone else-They stayed, too.
And the singer/songwriter in the room, she said “fuckin’ beau-i-fu”
in a gorgeous British accent
that thought no less of my shaky start
and could make anything sound like porcelain.
And I just want to tell no-one else more than you.