I look at this lady in the subway whenever I take the train from Harvard Square, this middle-aged woman in black trousers and a black jacket, I have heard her singing the same song everyday. I don’t remember the song, never even bothered to google it. I vaguely remember a few words, and it goes something like: and you said I was the only one. I remember these words so clearly because her voice gets ever so intense whenever she utters these few words. She doesn’t sing well, her voice is sad and broken. But it’s for her voice that I manage to feel warm in this freezing little mess of a city.
You know where exactly even the fanciest camera of all, fails? Here. I am unable to present to you this moment of mine with a strange old lady with a voice so known to both of us.
And I wish we could sit by her side there at the subway. And I could love you as we listen to her voice break with all that pain that we both know so intimately.
I love writing to you.
And actually we both write the same things all the time. Now I ask you if you’re ill, then you write about it, now I want to die, then you, now I want to cry in front of you like a little girl, and then you in front of me like a little boy. And once and ten times and a thousand times and all the time I want to be with you and you say the same. Enough, enough.