Between you and me, there’s a man. Don’t worry, he’s not looking. He can’t hear us either. If you’re keen to know, he doesn’t live here. He’s not from here, he just likes to hang out here, as far as I can tell. We never speak, and actually, I’ve never even heard him speak. I’ve only heard him sing in the courtyard. He’s here every day.
You should know, he’s got a voice that just goes and goes, got a real set of pipes on him, I tell you. Only the pane keeps us apart, and maybe for the better. Regardless of where I am in the house, I always hear him clearly. Even when I can’t see him and even though he isn’t near me. In a way, he’s always with me, meaning, I’m never really alone.
He waits by the gate, and carries with him his bag of tricks, a place for his pipes. He rhymes and riddles to no one in particular, he doesn’t seem concerned whether he is heard or not. And to tell the truth, he doesn’t appear to register much of what plays out around him anyhow. He’s not one to be made sense of, but I hear him. I listen so intently.
I never see my actual neighbours. I never see them come or go, and even though I spend all day sitting here looking out, it’s like I live here all alone. It makes me feel like I’m so far removed from the world, like it’s just me and the singer’s silky voice, in a lonely universe. I’m being dramatic, but out of necessity. I have to be, for my sanity.
I don’t tell you what to do.
This morning I woke up in need of a change, but it never came to me. It doesn’t ever come, not for me. I guess the secret’s out, above me looking down. Out of my reach, though only an arm’s length apart. I keep on forgetting, but everything reminds me. Nothing's wrong, but nothing’s right either.
I’ve gone so soft I can only stay in. I tell myself I just need a win, and think of all the times I wish I’d replied with ‘I wish!’ but instead just felt sorry for myself I don't always feel fine. My face betrays me. I can’t be seen underneath, truly a sore sight. I think I’ve got my reasons for why I can’t reveal how I really feel. No, the well has run dry. I will never tell anybody, but my walls.
Already have it written all over me, I can't wait to be old. Grow ghoulish, give in fully to gravity’s pull, its fingers’ invisible grasp gripping ever tighter. One day I’ll get to give off freely my evil odour, a perfume so foul it’s only worn by one man, unmistakably me.
Hidden behind the geraniums, I sit here swaddled. My true scent still deep inside the folds, lying in wait. Catching the last bit of Sun before it sets, I’ve got my routine. Always thinking I’ll learn something new for once, but it’s forever the same old me in my home. The same old floors, the same old walls, and the same old glazing that keeps things out of my reach. You get stuck in a rut. But sometimes, sometimes.
I’m going to have to enjoy it, life’s so short.
I’ll look at him from behind my window, and pretend. I listen to his words, and try to predict where he’s headed. I’ll interject, weigh in on things, or even share some of my own experiences. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, to the point it’s almost like our relationship is real. It’s not so different from the ones I’ve known, back when I did know more. It’s about as real as it can ever be for me.
But today, I have hope, maybe things can be different, everything is looking different to me. Ever have that? Things keep changing on me, despite evidently staying the same. I think we’ve had this conversation before, but I keep seeing things in a new light.
It’s like things can only change when you stay the same, and you can only change when things stay the same, but it’s hard to tell apart which it is when you’re in it.
I hope he’ll sing about me, when my time comes to go. But how could he? We’ve never even met. I know I’d sing for him. Were you a friend? Yeah, something to that effect.
I’ll continue to sit here, watching him. If I ever catch him looking back at me, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that he did. He didn’t see me. Some things only get more difficult with time.
Oh, to be young again…