Monday, September 27, 2010

Matter, matter honey.

The fact was, they were talented. Fin played the guitar, sang with a hushed, melodic voice, and had the sweetest laugh. Jamie was the writer, who's words fit perfectly in Fin's mouth on stage, and sat quietly in her journals off.
They were golden.
Together, they were golden.
Jamie waited in the park every Friday on the grass (or when it snowed, on a bench), and wrote words that she dragged from her head, muttering under their breaths angrily. She scribbled them on the paper in neat block script, and when Fin walked up with his case over his back, she closed it quickly. She'd move over even when there was more than enough room for Fin already, and together they'd go through her pieces and put music to them.
Everyone was jealous of her words and his voice.
But Fin and Jamie couldn't be fucked, because it was the only thing that kept them sane. Without it, they would definitely be somewhere else. Somewhere possibly dark.
Occasionally the words would be louder and louder, almost angry, almost upset when Fin sang from the bottom of his lungs. He strummed the guitar, banging the side as he went for a beat. Those were the times when Jamie kept her book closed for minutes longer than usual. When her smile faded as he read through the lined pages.
But more frequently the words were quiet. Shielded just enough so you had to look under the shelter to understand. To pull the cover back just another inch.
Jamie never had to voice her words because Fin was her voice. But behind his voice, or rather, in front of, stood Fin, singing his heart out to desperately understand Jamie. She scared him.
Sometimes her words hurt him, dug claws into his spine and pulled. He knew something was terribly wrong, but he never questioned the meaning behind them, just the emotion. That was enough.
He figured if he sang for her, if he let out the pain she was feeling for her, then maybe he might understand, and maybe he might help.
Jamie was always in the audience or backstage. She watched his heart go out, lights, eyes, on his skin.
She listened to him, to herself. She loved his voice.
She loved it as if it were her own, as if he were her own, she loved him.

The last Friday they met in the park, Fin hugged Jamie, in tears. He hadn't any guitar case on his back, and Jamie held her journal tight in between them.
But it doesn't matter what was said, what happened. In the end their lives were as insignificant as any other.
Just as yours is, just as mine.

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