I realize, now, that we are the same.

Awake at night.

Flooded by emotions we ignored in the light.

I realize, now, that we are hopelessly human.

Hurt. Lost. Healing.

Stuck in a labyrinth of realities we cannot escape.

I get it. I get the need to play keys at 3 when the sky is darkest.

I understand the insecurities that feed repetition.

Again. Again. Always again.

We try. We always try. We have to survive.

This is our mantra: We know nothing but war.

I realize, now, that we are both lonely.

Yet we have found solitude in the music you play.

Your melodies carry your anger. My anger. Your anxiety. My anxiety. Your need for love. My need for love.

There is a wall between us, yet I feel so close to you.

Closer than I’ve felt to those who know my name and have held my hand.

I wish I could tell you it’s okay.

That somehow we will survive.

Somehow it will get easier to breathe.

I wish I could love you.

In the silent chaotic way your melodies clutch my heart.

I see you. I hear you. I get you.

I wish I could tell how proud of you I am.

I’ve heard your fingers strengthen in confidence. Their gracefulness transforming to tell your story in the only way you know how.

Minutes. Hours. Weeks go by, as I listen to your song that has always been mine.

And on days when I hear your door open, I crave the recklessness to step out and tell you we will be okay.

But I crush down the desire to know. To sit alongside you on the bench as you play. To hum as your music drives me: To sing. To find my voice again, as you find yours.