Sweet bird, write music.

Listen to your heart.

Listen to

the mellow beats of music.

Listen to

every note as the

pianist plays.

Listen to

the rhythm of guitar strings

strummed together

by the fingers of

a guitarist.

 

Darling, write music.

See how your eyes

blaze with

fiery passion

when you listen to

your favorite songs.

Your soul ignites

and

your eyes incandescent

to the melody of music.

 

Dearest, write music.

Even as you dream.

Even when you wake.

Write about

passersby in the streets of New York,

the sound of birds in the forests,

the butterflies dancing in the meadows,

the scent of violent seas,

the moon that outshines the stars,

the world beneath your feet.

 

Beautiful angel, write music.

Write music

because you are itself,

the music

that lulls me into quiescent sleep.

You are itself,

the music

that my soul searches for.

You are itself,

you are itself,

the music

that my heart beats for.

 

So my love, write music.

Even when this is all over.

Even when I’m no longer there.

Even when the sun

that used to shine right before you

has already faded.

Even when the sky

has turned grey from blue.

Even when the rain

seems to last forever.

 

Write music,

Even when I’m gone.

Write about

me

and how you saw

flowers

growing inside my lungs

when I talked about

you.

Because

when you write music

as long as you breathe,

you keep me alive;

For you,

you are itself,

you are itself,

the only music

that my heart beats for.