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But the lyrics….
It ruined me to write them.
The Greek guys and Jude were there, they saw it happen.
I was reliving every single second I have spent with her. I was sprawled on the floor on my stomach and I had her poems printed out, spread over the carpet around me. I wanted to include a word or two from them, a clue inside the song, so that if by some miracle she heard it, she would know I read them. That I knew. The chances of this ever happening were slim to none, of course.
I had never written like that—with zero hope, in a panic.
The words always come to me when I’m sitting on the piano or with my guitar. Most of the time, they used to come to me in the car, and I would recite them to my driver and he would tell me if they sucked or not.
But what happened with this song… It was like a freaking university assignment.
I wanted to put everything in it.
Her. Me. Us. Our past. Our present.
Her books. My guitar. The leaves. The sky.
Our every single conversation.
My remorse. My pain. My love.
I don’t even know how to write about love, real, lasting love. I never have before. The first real love song I wrote wasEnough Love, which I wrote with Eden a few days ago. And it was about my dad.
But a song likePierce Me?
A song about forgiveness and hope after all is lost? A song about that kind of love? I needed to dig deep down inside to find it. I needed to teach myself how to love that way first. And I’ve still got a long way to go.
But the song, if I say so myself, is a masterpiece.
I sing it with my entire soul on display, and when I stop singing for a second, before the first verse bleeds into the chorus, I put my violin back under my chin and play out a few quick notes. The crowd can’t take it, they go wild even if it’s just a few seconds. But it’s a good few seconds.
What my brother could call ‘tight’.
When we were rehearsing it in the hotel, just a few hours ago, Dimitris said it was the most badass thing he’d ever heard played on a violin.
“You haven’t heard much violin in your life, have you?” I told him, teasing.
He’d raised an eyebrow in response. Of course he has heard enough violin. He is about to graduate from one of the best freaking musical universities in Europe.
“I have heard enough violin,” he said. “In fact, I have heard too much. And this,” he pointed to me, “is good.”
Just that. Good. I’ve gone viral, I’ve been hounded by the paps and crazy fans, I’ve sold out stadiums and I’ve been written fanfiction about. I’ve won Grammies, I’ve had my music be nominated for Academy Awards. But to be called ‘good’ by a classically trained musician… That to me has been the pinnacle of success. It almost made me tear up.
Remembering that moment, and Dimitris’ ‘good’, I shoot him a glance of gratitude as he plays his guitar behind me, on stage. He smirks at me. Sweat and rain are dripping down his throat, his shirt is plastered to his skin, abs visible in his abdomen, and he’s laughing as he plays the crap out of that guitar. He’s having the time of his life.
One of us should.
I rip the violin off my shoulder and step up to the microphone to sing‘Pierce my armor, pierce my soul.’
I sing it softly at first, in a low vibrato, and then as the music swells and jumps into a higher octave I just belt out the last words‘it’s yours it’s yours’, my voice holding the final high note until I can’t breathe. And then I hold it some more. I plan to catch my breath before I go into the chorus one final time. By now, they are all singing it with me, but I can’t concentrate on anything else other than surviving.
Surviving this damn song.
You’ve made an Austen hero out of me
I’m Romeo, I’m Rochester
