Une barque sur l’ ocean, by Maurice Ravel plays over a memory as if it were a soundtrack to a day spent traversing cobbled streets & walking till our feet hurt.

Some very specific. Some obscure, hidden under layers of subtext.
He comes back to me in several ways.
He comes back to me in memories, through music sometimes on streets we had both walked on.
His fascination with what for me, was so mundane, so ordinary.
His enthusiasm for something, so commonplace.

But I wonder, why that track? That composition?

Streets so frequently walked on, but that one time stands out almost distinctly, always over that track or rather pleasantly coexisting. Like the warmth of the midday sun; the rays spreading out and shining on us & us only.

It’s a different kind of attraction, a special kind of sadness, a melancholic one. Why would I trace our footsteps trodden over by thousands of others since that day.

Revisit those streets in hopes of rekindling the bubbling joy of companionship, now lost. Why do I prefer this loneliness? Aching and longing for someone seemingly oblivious to my plight. When he comes back – if, he comes back, I shall tell him.

But how will he react? Does he feel lonely too? If I confess would our loneliness diminish? Our aching want to accomplish something that sets us both apart, almost evenly?

Une barque sur l’océan has a hopeful start, but it fades into a disheartening crescendo, as it progresses.
Much like him & I.

The street across the library, the library, the intense conversation; what was I thinking about? The first few seconds of the track play like a broken record. On loop, the memory doesn’t reach the crescendo.
The memory exists in a void where the minute long intro plays over and over again.

I shall retrace our footsteps- which do not exist anymore, a thousand times over. Then visit the quaint little bookshop we went to, sit in a corner, unobserved & longingly sigh.

Maybe someday I’ll ask him if he wants to share a cheesecake with me. I wonder how he’s doing. Is he still writing with flair, has his muse found him? Passion now lost but he had hoped to rekindle on his trip here?
I look up to him, he inspires me.

But what does he do when he’s feeling low?

Does he wander the back alleys in hopes of rekindling what he felt when he walked those down with me?

Does he try to make sense of the dreaded void?

He was here, he met me, we gave each other company, he left. I was alone, always will be.ean, by Maurice Ravel plays over a memory as if it were a soundtrack to a day spent traversing cobbled streets & walking till our feet hurt. He comes back to me in several ways. Some very specific. Some obscure, hidden under layers of subtext.

He comes back to me in memories, through music sometimes on streets we had both walked on. His fascination with what for me, was so mundane, so ordinary. His enthusiasm for something, so commonplace.

But I wonder, why that track? That composition? Streets so frequently walked on, but that one time stands out almost distinctly, always over that track or rather pleasantly coexisting. Like the warmth of the midday sun; the rays spreading out and shining on us & us only. It’s a different kind of attraction, a special kind of sadness, a melancholic one. Why would I trace our footsteps trodden over by thousands of others since that day. Revisit those streets in hopes of rekindling the bubbling joy of companionship, now lost. Why do I prefer this loneliness? Aching and longing for someone seemingly oblivious to my plight.

When he comes back – if, he comes back, I shall tell him. But how will he react? Does he feel lonely too? If I confess would our loneliness diminish? Our aching want to accomplish something that sets us both apart, almost evenly? Une barque sur l’océan has a hopeful start, but it fades into a disheartening crescendo, as it progresses. Much like him & I.

The street across the library, the library, the intense conversation; what was I thinking about? The first few seconds of the track play like a broken record. On loop, the memory doesn’t reach the crescendo. The memory exists in a void where the minute long intro plays over and over again. I shall retrace our footsteps- which do not exist anymore, a thousand times over. Then visit the quaint little bookshop we went to, sit in a corner, unobserved & longingly sigh. Maybe someday I’ll ask him if he wants to share a cheesecake with me.

I wonder how he’s doing. Is he still writing with flair, has his muse found him? Passion now lost but he had hoped to rekindle on his trip here? I look up to him, he inspires me. But what does he do when he’s feeling low? Does he wander the back alleys in hopes of rekindling what he felt when he walked those down with me? Does he try to make sense of the dreaded void? He was here, he met me, we gave each other company, he left. I was alone, always will be.