I wrote that but it’s not mine any more. I’m listening to you singing and … what have you done to my song? How? I mean how did you do that – again?
I hate you. I loathe you. You arrogant privileged idiot with the biggest smuggest ego. Singing comes so easily to you. You never had to train or strive, bleed, suffer … nothing. Not like the rest of us who never became any good despite everything we tried.
I know you despise me because I am too shy and boring … and can’t do what you do. But you are singing my song and I am adoring what you are doing to it. You are very special. I will never tell you that.
The notes just fly from you, always as if they’re happy to escape, never forced. You fill the place with angels.
I’m learning another form of communication between people. It’s admiration despite.
OK, I will keep a straight face after the concert and … the tears your singing cause will all be brushed away and I’ll look all cool … but should I?
You won’t even notice me anyway. That’s a bit sad. You shallow, shallow genius who would be nothing without me.
I could stop writing your songs today, this minute. You would have to find someone else. Right now there isn’t anyone. There will be. I’m good but there will be others one day. Oh…
I will never stop writing for you. Because, your voice, your perfection.
I loathe you. I adore you.
No, when I see you after the concert tonight I’m going to cry out of pure admiration. You deserve that – to see my tears. You should see my raw heart because of what you do on stage – you inspire everyone and they bask in the beauty that pours from you. What you do with my heart is out of my control. I just want you to know I noticed you tonight … like I always do.
I hate you. Did I mention that?
©Gary Bonn 2018