Popping the headphones in, I raised my eyebrows in expectation- a cue to start his three-minute song. Looking more at the computer than myself, he clicked once and the music crept into audibility.
Immediately, I reckoned the metallic vibrations to that of a lonely echo clinging to the walls of a concrete tunnel- and I closed my eyes to match its entrancing darkness. It was rhythmic, it was beautiful. It was the tribal hymn of rain, somehow translated to an acoustic guitar.
Then, the melody began to speak. The cadence, the pauses, the expression mirrored his voice, and the song was having a conversation. Feeling more like reading his journal than listening to a song he'd constructed, I wrapped my fingers around his arm as if to say, "I hear you."
Towards the end, there was deconstruction. High octave notes rang out, a frantic goodbye, screamed by the song itself.
Of course, I can only now describe it. And I feel stupid, because I just sat there, commenting here and there, chuckling thoughtfully, and saying "This is so pretty!". If only he knew that every night from now on it will sing me to sleep.
