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I’d still choose the one with you in it.
All I want to do is to live in a world
Where you and I are not strangers now.
I need to put a melody to this, is my first thought.
I need this to be about me, is my second.
I need this poem to be about me.
I need this poem to be about me.
I need this poem to be about me.
“Isaiah?” Skye says in this small, scared voice. And Skye is not small, by any definition of the word. “Isaiah, breathe, man, breathe. In, out. Come on.”
I need to breathe.I don’t know if I do breathe or not. Skye stops being so frantic and weird, so maybe I do.
“What do you need?” He’s rubbing my back and I shake his hand off. Gross. But also, thanks. I’ll have to thank him later.
Here is what I need: I need this poem to be about me.
“Eden,” I say immediately. On second thought, there’s someone else I need as well, but it’s not as pressing as the need for her. I need her in order to be able to breathe.
“She left, remember?” Skye says, and I have to bite down hard on my lip ring so that I don’t start swearing.
“How do I get her back?” I whisper.
Skye doesn’t reply. That’s uncharacteristically tactful of him: the answer is obvious.You don’t. You don’t get her back.
You’ve messed up too badly.
She’s gone.
“Is Dimitris here?” I ask Skye. “I think his flight might have landed a few hours ago.”
“I’ll check.” He picks up his phone. “You want him here?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Yes, please.”
He looks at me as if I’ve gone mad.‘Yes, please’? Maybe I have. But it’s occurred to me, maybe for the first time since I started this tour, that not everything I need is within reach. Not everything I need is within my power to get.
Like Eden.
Like air.
Like writing. At least I got that back.
I need to write. Now.
Writing, I can do.
So while Skye climbs to his feet and starts barking orders to my assistants to freaking find Eden Elliot and bring her here, I grab my phone and write the words to the melody that’s been haunting me from the minute I saw Eden on Spencer’s stupid yacht. The same melody I murmured to her the night of the riot.
Its words are flooding my head.
I write for an hour straight, and the song just comes pouring out of me, as if it had already been formed inside my soul. It fits the melody perfectly. It comes out ready.
