THE SYMPHONY OF YOUR ROOM

 

The Symphony of Your Room  

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You always slept with the windows flung wide,

Sashes creaking against the frame,

Inviting the night to spill its secrets inside—

A chorus of noises, raw and unscripted,

The familiar hymn of your home humming through.

Out back, the beagle bayed at shadows,

His howls a jagged melody,

Chasing every rustle—

A squirrel skittering, a leaf tumbling in the breeze—

His voice bouncing off the clapboard walls.

Just beyond the sill, cardinal birds trilled,

Their scarlet throats pulsing with dawn’s first notes,

A sharp staccato piercing the haze of sleep—

Enough to jolt bleue eyes open,

Enough to leave you dreaming,

Your breaths steady, undisturbed,

A soft rhythm beneath the clamor.  

We both adored it when the rain swept in,

Clouds splitting open like a promise kept,

And it did—oh, it did—

That September, when the air hung thick,

The sky bruising purple before the downpour.

Drops drummed the roof in a steady tattoo,

Slipping through the screen to kiss the floorboards,

A cool mist curling around us,

Draping the room in a sheen of silver.

The world outside softened,

Muffled by the patter on leaves,

The gurgle of gutters overflowing—

And we’d lie there, tangled in the damp sheets,

Soaking in the relief of it,

The fear too—

Two sets of eyes locked in the dim glow,

Wide and wordless,

Daring each other to climb higher,

To leap into the vastness of what we felt,

No ropes, no nets, just the fall.  

Those sounds wove a cocoon around us,

A shield of beagle barks and bird calls,

Rain’s whisper and wind’s low moan—

They built a fortress within these four walls,

Your bedroom a sanctuary carved from chaos.

No mundane worries could breach it—

Not the bills piling on the kitchen counter,

Not the clock’s relentless march,

Not the chatter of neighbors through thin fences.

All conversations, trivial or weighty,

Dissolved at the threshold,

Thoughts themselves turned to vapor,

Unable to pierce the thick air we breathed.

It was just us,

The creak of the bedframe,

The rustle of sheets kicked to the floor,

The pulse of our silence louder than words.  

I’d watch you sleep,

Your face softened by the gray light,

Rain tracing rivers down the panes,

The beagle’s howl fading to a whine,

The cardinals settling into their nests.

That September stretched long in my memory,

Each storm a chapter,

Each sound a thread stitching us closer—

The way the thunder growled low,

A bassline to our unspoken vows,

The way the wind rattled the glass,

Urging us to hold tighter.

We thrived in that space,

Relishing the wildness seeping in,

The intimacy of knowing

No one else could hear what we heard,

Feel what we felt,

In the fragile kingdom of your room.  

But time turns even the sweetest notes sour—

The windows still stand open in my mind,

The noises still play, a ghostly refrain,

The beagle’s cry, the birds’ dawn chorus,

The rain tapping its restless code.

I wonder if you hear them too,

Wherever you are,

If they wake you now,

Or if they’ve faded to a hum,

Lost in the static of years apart.

These walls, though, they remember—

They hold the echo of our daring,

The relief and fear in our mirrored gazes,

The love that bloomed in the storm’s embrace,

Unshaken by the world beyond,

A melody that lingers,

Soft but stubborn,