I wish it was acceptable to hand someone a song. Sometimes words alone simply aren’t enough. Sometimes, it takes that perfect coming together of sounds and voices, of melodies scribbled in notebooks late at night brought to life by strings and air. It shouldn’t be cowardly. It shouldn’t prompt “Really? You can’t say how you feel? So instead you’re playing me this stupid song?” when really, that’s not it at all. I can make words come out of my mouth. I can have that horrible conversation, the one to say I’m sorry, that I’m sad, that I don’t care, that I’m still angry, that I love you. I can have the conversation with the shaky voice and the staring at my feet and the windy rustle of leaves in the street. But it’s not enough. And believe me, I wish my words were poetic and could naturally imply whispering harmonies; but they don’t. So please, instead, accept a song. If I could give you a song, it would tell you that you may not realize it, but you’ve got so much love in you. And more than anything, good friend, I wanna be next to you. It would tell you to promise not to promise anymore, that they’re playing our song but if the silence takes you then I hope it takes me too. It would thank you for reminding me that blue skies are coming. That no matter what, I will find another way to tell you you’re okay. You and I, well, we will put the lonesome on the shelf. In reality, we’re breakable boys and girls. And my heart, well, it’s just that it’s delicate. But sometimes, I wish that I was a little more delicate. If nothing else, I would hand you every instrumental Sleeping at Last song, because they’re too beautiful to be covered with words and I think Jason Mraz said something substantial when he wrote that often times those words get tangled up in lines. If I could give you a song, it would tell you that you’re the nicest thing I’ve ever seen and that I wish that we could be something. It would say those three words that became hard to say. And maybe you could string together I and love and you and give that song to me. So please, this time, accept a song. Accept Regina Spektor’s beautiful piano and Ingrid’s perfect ukulele melodies. Accept that I admit the clumsiness of my speech and flustered head, after all, you cause those nerves that never seem to leave these days. Instead, accept this song. Accept that I want to remember this moment with a glorious soundtrack that our breaths and beating hearts move along to, in perfect synchronization. Accept every note, every chord, and every syllable of every word. And maybe, for once, I could come close to letting you know me.