kalvin dot life

Her voice wavers, setting free haunted notes in a tinkling drawl. Abstract chords on the guitar strummed slowly. And I listen. Out of sight. Hesitant to make a sound that would break that frigid spell.

The rhythm flows quicker as the first glints of sunlight creep across the dusty wooden floor. Boards laid a century ago, waiting.

Notes of her voice crescendo up, for whom? Where have I experienced this dream before? They say there is the way of nature and the way of grace. If only I could walk that line unheeded. Forgetting, letting go, inspired and unconcerned. After the fall what were we left with? Is there no way back? Through these soprano notes?