Been doing a lot of thinking..

I remember nights I would come home and find her in a smokey room, barely covered by underwear and a tight t shirt, tear stained and more beautiful than ever. I could see the scene as soon as I pushed my way through the front door, too many bags in my hand, flustered from a long day at work. I could hear her playing, could see the violin under her perfectly sculpted chin in my mind, the notes were all long and beautiful. They carried me towards her; I floated through the kitchen, opened the sliding doors into the large living room and towards the long table where she'd sit. She would continue to play for a moment as though I wasn't standing there and finally, falter. "Fuck," she would say out loud, throwing her arm down and spinning to see me. I would always tell her it was beautiful, she was so talented, she should continue to play even when she made mistakes. Once she felt comfortable she would crumble, like a building being taken down by a demolition team. I would follow her to the ground, taking her into my arms. I had never seen someone look so beautiful when they cried, it was so tragically romantic, she was effervescent, glowing, soft. Finally, when we had talked it through, taken smoke into our lungs, and laughed a bit over something shallow she would pick the violin back up. The Harry Potter theme song was my favorite and she would play it for me. Then it was over and we could pack up the sheets of music back into the box, place the violin back in its case, and continue on with life. It happened multiple times this way and each time she became more and more beautiful. Isn't it funny how there are things in life like that, that bloom in their misery, like a rose softly dropping it's petals. It is so beautifully heartbreaking. It is the truth of life.