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.