Your Song

A story from the heart

If I could write a story to a song, my story would be told with pretty lyrics and fitful melodies, laced with a bit of ironic play on words. If I could sing you a tale, you'd fall asleep to it every night, breathing deeply as you lay there on your pillow safe in your room from the terrors of this world.

Unfortunately, I cannot sing, nor can I write catchy lyrics to get stuck in your head so much that you'll hum the tune all day long, and even into the night. I'm not a poet so I can't make words rhyme, the most I can do is rhyme dog with frong, but that doesn't suffice enough to make you love me, or even think about thinking about me. You know?

I've tried my hand as music, and poetry, and even just plain old talking to you, but you've never noticed. Contrary to poular belief, you think of me as more of a brother than a best friend, which is a good thinkg and a bad thing because that means you can tell me everything, but at the same time, not have to be around me as often. But I do want to be around you, you know.

I love the smell of your beautiful perfume as it wafts in the crisp morning air, greeting me in the early as I greet you at your door, picking you up for another day of school. Your hair is a different colour today. It's nice. It's the colour of a burning fire, which alludes to your fiery personality, as well as how my heart burns and years for you. But your hair does look nice today, corny references to love aside.

You greet me with that smile that I love so much, a little wave and swagger in your step that makes your hair bounce on your shoulders, flying lazily around the pretty picture face you carry around with you everywhere. Sure, I've heard other guys talk about how 'hot' and 'sexy' you are, but those are just words. They're a play on words. Words that carry no meaning due to how generic and... disgusting they sound. I don't use those words. Come to think of it, I don't use any words to describe you, I let my emotions and feelings take over, like I always do, though I act like a jerk sometimes for you, you don't seem to mind. Actually, you laugh at my stupid attempts at making you laugh, and that makes me laugh. Pretty soon, we're both laughing at our own little inside joke that the rest of the world will never know. You know?

You turn to me after a few feet and ask me if I"m goign to spend all day standing by your house or if I'm actually going to go to school today. I laugh and follow. We walk to school, slowly, just so we can extend the time before we have to sit in uncomfortable seats and listen to a monotonous teacher drone on and on about some war or the other, because we secretly think that he's a vampire and has lived through all of these wars, the way he talks about them.

I can't help but think that you'd like be better if I were a poet. So I tried. Once. It didn't work. My rhymes were askew and the entire flow of my poem didn't sound right to me; it didn't convey all that I had been meaning to say. It didn't come close, actually. My so called 'poem' sounded like some loser babbling on and on, trying to convince The One that she means so much to him, yet all he can do is rhyme dog with frog. I told you, I'm not that good. So I throw the crumpled up piece of paper in the trash and walk out of my room to pick you up for school.

I laugh out loud on accident and you ask me what's so funny. I don't tell you and I can see the insane desire to know churning behind your eyes. They're beautiful, too, even if you wear glasses. I chuckle again and you shoot me a voy look and I respond with a coy look of my own.

The courtyard-- the people. Everything milling about in a sense of a quiet riot, the way that one would think hippies do whith things like 'flower power' and 'peace on earth', their whispering hearts pounding in their chest, itching for a revolution; musical or otherwise. These groups of people, though, have something else in mind. Ninety-five percent of them are guys, set out to gawk and stare at you in a fashion of which I loathe the most. You're not a prize and you're not an object, and sometimes I find myself wishing that you'd give them the flying finger and tell them in a most lady-like fashion that they just need to buzz off. I'mthinking of much more colourful language, but it would detract from my overall message, here.

You tell me constantly that I'm your best friend, sometimes you call me brother, and I'm just fine with that, though I have my own wants, I can be cordial. I can. Past the stupid jokes and the band t-shirts and my smile, I can be sweet and caring ang twice the man any of them could ever hope to be with their wolf whistles and their "hots" and "sexies".

I don't like it, and I can tell you're uncomfortable. I don't say anything because I have no idea what to say. That's when you see him, waiting for you at your locker, your boyfriend and the biggest meathead I've ever had the displeasure to meet. There's no way in your eyes tha tI could compare to him. I can't. He's got muscles where I've just got skin. Yes, I'm pretty fit, but I'm not that fit, you know?

You two embrace and I find myself in an awkward situation, like I do pertty much every morning when you two see each other. I say goodbye but you don't hear me, and I'm fine with that; content, even.

If I could write you a song, my lyrics woud carry the immense depth of y soul, or my heart, all the way to your ears. I blow a kiss to you goodnight before I leave you at your door, you don't feel it because you already turned your back, I'm okay, though I'll see you tomorrow.

If I were talented enough to write you a poem, I would. If I coudl rhyme so much more than frog and dog, I would in a heartbeat and wouldn't hesitate to physically kiss you goodnight. If you wanted me to.

If I could write you a song, your name would be the title and my name would be the period at the end, feeling like a complete sentence with you.

Unfortunately, I can't sing.

Author's Note

It's written from a guy's point of view