Stephen Sondheim
i might be moderately in love with the stephen sondheim
or rather music
the way intervals fall and build like waves in the sea
each sentence a possibility for a rhyme
and how he expertly sails over it like a master sailor on his favorite catamaran
i would want to keep him on my ipod
or in my mind
keep his music on repeat in whichever memory he could exist in
i have my piano behind me
the same way he has his or i imagine he would
real people are rarely as real as you imagine
you could fret over what they would actually do for hours
all while you expect something familiar
i would want the man, the myth, the music
on the island, in a random order of priorities
functioning only on my desire to hear music
i could have him has a lover, if he were younger,
as a teacher, if i were talented,
or as a dream, which i could have anywhere
yet here i will listen
and i could not live without music
a bird without air, or wings,
a fish without water, or fins,
a piano without noise, or keys,
a lungs without air, or song,
a throat without water, or voice,
an ear without noise, or harmony
without music.
thank you, stephen sondheim.