“Some loves are written in duet, but end in solo—not because the song was wrong, but because the silence asked for something new.”
bb grey
The crescendos quiet now,
fortes fading to a hush,
sixteenth notes slipping into silence,
rests long enough to echo absence.
Once, we were music,
her right hand, light and wild,
dancing treble,
mine the left—rooted, steady,
the bass that tried to hold her
to the earth,
as her song reached skyward.
Fingers once interlaced
in harmony,
then scattered,
like birds startled mid-flight.
There should be more weeping
in a final song,
more reverence in the letting go
of something once divine.
But the last note
trembled, broke,
and she,
unbound by duet or refrain,
slipped into silence
to find her own melody,
or a new accompaniment.
And I,
still the echo beneath someone else’s joy,
or perhaps,
a lone instrument now,
can choose to be
the whole orchestra.
I have carried melody before.
I have been score and soul,
right and left hand
on a single keyboard.
Some songs are sweet and brief.
Others—the long ache of symphonies,
operas blooming in dusk-light,
with voices rising in longing,
and instruments
calling each other
home,
or away.
BB Grey--musings 
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