A Promise to the Sky

I heard only his music and the sound of autumn
It made me stop where I was
I felt like I needed to know him
But I couldn’t get close enough
There’s something about this boy
With his smile and brown eyes
Blonde hair and high cheekbones catching the sun,
That makes me scared:
If I get too close he could look at me
And he might not see the me I wish he would
He is playing the guitar
I sit back against a whitewashed wall,
Blue light from the sea forming a melody of its own,
And listen
Each note is a promise to the sky
Bluegrass- it’s beautiful
I can tell he cares about the music,
His face lit up and expressive, almost dancing
A strand of hair has fallen across one eye
A few freckles decorate his face,
Constellations of something purely him.
His body is tense with the art of sharing space with
Such nostalgic notes
Notes that remind me of the smell of hay and thyme,
Liquorice, petrichor, sage
When he stops playing, the whole world seems to have been waiting with me
I can almost feel it relax into the silence
When he picks up a violin, I know I have to stay
I have forgotten about wherever I needed to go
A moment of still before he draws a single, pure note from nowhere
This song is like breathing
The inhale of wisdom
Exhale of beauty
Leaves swirl around his feet,
Crimson and auburn
Tokens of gratitude from nature herself
Even she cannot ignore this boy
His eyes are closed as he falls into himself
The crescendo of the song is accompanied by the crescendo of his
Body, the arch of his back as he leans into the culmination
Then plummets gracefully into the nadir,
As if ready to embrace the earth,
Bowing his head over the violin,
Soft and slow,
Each note pulling his head higher until
He is playing for the sky,
Face turned upwards so that
I can see the pulse in his throat, intense and aching
The raw angst of the song fighting to be free
It ends on a high note
He is still,
Lets himself be claimed by the sky
His closed eyes see different things than mine
It is silent
Until he lowers both instrument and bow to his sides
The brush of hollow wood against fabric
And our eyes meet
Him wondering about the girl who stopped to watch
Me wondering about the boy who turned into music
Watching me, he puts the violin back up to his chin.

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This poem is about a boy in my school who I've watched perform before... he became one with the music.