I once arranged songs for you,
plucked from a collection
that hums through my nights,
melodies that summon nothing
but the beats and codes we found.

The first is about a last kiss,
just one before I go,
and that always and forever
are hands on clocks too different
to keep on turning together,
to keep from hurting each other.

Another has no words at all,
an instrumental river of warm notes
about the way you can move me,
coiling and dancing together before
the tune is quietly snuffed out,
I want you to listen closely then,
remember my name in that coda.

Two of them are about limits,
how your love is like a map
I reached the dark corners of
and how I was too enamored
to know when the chase ends,
to know when love is not enough.

One of them was about the winter,
where I kept waiting for you,
burned bridges I could
never face crossing again
as a heart learned to squeeze
blood from a cold stone
and a spell began to break.

Another track is as vague as you,
my favourite mystery to examine,
rhymes and riddles overlapping
about needing to finally breathe,
about how the hunger can't be denied.

I almost don't include the next one,
about being covered in you,
so close that I could read secrets
as if they're written all over your skin,
about what I had to kill to let you go.

The song that I save for the end,
a final track to say it all
is about how we meant well,
all about how you said
that this is for the best.

I arranged the songs once,
sent them off like a love letter
with a signature in every note
never to be acknowledged again,
whether you heard them or not,
whether they touched you or not,
the songs hum through me every night.

I want you to listen just once,
remember my name in that coda.