Ne me quitte pas.
A boy's room,
making his way to manhood, but a boy nevertheless.
Stolen road signs and worn copies of Le monde diplomatique scattered on the floor.
An innocent film script covered with marginalia - the mark of someone who still believes.
A headful of dreams and parents patiently waiting on the ground floor.
His eyes lit up as he said You must listen to this- it's magic, and pressed play.
Jacques Brel burst out of the speakers, singing, but it felt more like he was weaving a story.
about the sea, tempests, infidelity and about love, always love.
Without understanding why, something heavy was pressing on me,
I could not be sure- my French was tentative at best- and so he explained,
about the old lovers, the shadow of my shadow, the exultation of the body.
He told me about burning, loving- maybe too much, maybe in all the wrong ways.
He explained what everyone wants to feel at 23.
Upon my return home I studied Brel furiously.
Studying for the kind of love that only exists in chansons,
thinking that if I master the lyrics I can will them into being.
Will the songs into being.
Ten years later, and sometimes I still catch myself mumbling those phrases,
an old charm, an exhausting prayer.
Laisse-moi devenir,
l'ombre de ton ombre
l'ombre de ta main
l'ombre de ton chien
mais, ne me quitte pas.
As though they meant something.
And maybe they do.
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