I find it hard to accept that watching you sing is the only reason I go to that bar. Their fried wings are to die for, that I agree. But I try not to order them the nights you’re on stage. I’m one of those that can’t climb stairs while chewing; multi-tasking is a bitch. But you’re not. Actually, you’re nothing like I’ve seen or felt before. I’m not sure how to describe you, or if I should try to at all. Perhaps you’d understand me if you could see yourself the way I see you from my stool at the bar’s counter. I like it there because it’s dimly lit, so then I can just get lost in my admiration of your grace.
Today sucked, I missed an important meeting because I got stuck in traffic. At least that’s what I told my boss. He sent me my second warning letter and said the third letter will be the end of me. I sometimes look forward to this end that gets pushed to my face by everyone and everything. Death is the ultimate end, right? But I think what you make me feel is different. It doesn’t seem to be walled, it seems endless, unlike my miserable life. Maybe that’s why I love watching you sing then because the journey you take me to isn’t bound by the same rules our feeble reality is.
I like that you sing with your eyes closed. Where do you go when you close your eyes? Is this you letting the song soothe you like it soothes me? To be honest, I don’t really want to know. Let me continue assuming that you find solace from the same place I do, and that your peace is my peace too. That alone is enough for me, that alone is enough to keep me in the shadows, loving what you do to me from a distance.
What do you do when you’re not on that stage, trapping people in your trance? What’s your favourite meal? Do you live alone or with a boyfriend? Perhaps you’re gay and married to the woman of your dreams. Or maybe you still live at home, and your dad drops you off on Jazz Thursdays and just waits for you in the parking lot till you’re done. Or maybe he’s sat next to me at the bar counter, wondering why this creep can’t stop staring at his daughter.
I think I should go tell my boss to eat sh*t and just quit. He should know that I’m always late because there are a hundred places I’d rather be, yet my desperate self chooses to be his doormat and have him walk over me however he pleases. All those late night hours I spent marinating in your voice did something to me. Maybe watching you that whole time got me to grow the balls I needed to chase what I want and not settle for the bare minimum. Or maybe this is the biggest mistake of my life, who knows?
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