After dinner we sat as you sang
With your guitar and capo
In your black bean bag and orange shirt and socks,
Strumming songs about family and friends.
Some sang along
With those they knew,
While others absorbed
The personal and political.
"I'm in love with the free world,
But the free world's in love with itself."
Sister and father
Reflect anguish in a chord change.
"Do you remember when you hated the world?"
Song is closer to smell than memory;
Nostalgia brings tears to my nose.
"You're so fucking special."
I wish I was special.
One day I want someone to write a song for me.
But I'm scared of what they might say.