This City

She hung up and he wanted to listen to the song - the one they’d
talked about, the one he’d rediscovered after months and months. He’d forgotten it - forgotten how it made him feel and how much he loved it.

There were songs that made him think of her - songs he loved, songs he hated - but this song, this beautiful piece of music, he didn’t associate with anyone at all. He had already been in love with the song when they met.

He gave her the name once, he said “please, please, listen to this song, because I love it,” and she did and she liked it a lot. She didn’t love it like he did. She said she did, but no one could love it like he did.

He tried to turn it into ‘their song,’ but that didn’t stick. ‘It’s because she likes the acoustic version better,’ he thought, but no - it didn’t stick because two people who have never seen each other face to face can’t have a song. A song needs to occur naturally. It cannot be forced.

She hung up and he wanted to listen to the song. He wasn’t satisfied. He was never satisfied. He wanted to listen to it loud. He wanted to sing along with it. He wanted to scream it to the heavens.

He didn’t listen to the song.

He didn’t want to create a bad memory. He didn’t want to ruin the song by associating it with her.

He sighed.

He forgot about the song again within a week.