He Was Music

He was music.
He was seven guitars in a bedroom.
He was layers of instruments,
all in one song.
You had to pay close attention to hear them all.
There was notes in his breathing.
They got tangled in his hair.
When he spoke, the wind listened,
sang along with him.
Within seconds,
he could make everything stop.
Everything hold its breath.
Everything listen.
He never quite grasped it,
although I surely did.
With a power like that,
he’d make the universe stand still.

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