Some Songs Don’t End.
Her heart stung in that familiar way, as if someone she hadn’t met had once broken it on her behalf. Outside, the wind bent the trees. Inside, she rewound the tape—not ready for the silence that followed.
She found the cassette buried in a box beneath winter coats she no longer wore. Jeff Buckley – Live in New York, labeled in shaky script.
Pressing play felt like trespassing into a forgotten version of herself—the girl who believed music could explain everything she didn’t yet know how to feel.
The room filled with his voice: delicate, defiant, drowning in its own beauty. She sat cross-legged on the floor, hands folded like prayer, and thought of the others. Cohen’s poem, Louis’s grit. Buckley’s cry. How they sang grief like it was love, and love like it was loss.
Because it was.
Her heart stung in that familiar way, as if someone she hadn’t met had once broken it on her behalf. Outside, the wind bent the trees. Inside, she rewound the tape—not ready for the silence that followed.
Some songs don’t end.
They wait.
In boxes.
Under winter coats.
In hearts unhealed.
