Writing a Love Song
by Nina Clevinger
It's a Tuesday morning, dawn, the sky quickly filling in with shades of lavender. Beneath you is wet sand, cold, grey, and rocky. Water brushes your toes and slips over your ankles, turning the bottom of your jeans from robin's egg to midnight.
He's next to you; he's distant. His eyes match the sea and his voice doesn't quite pick up when he tells you he's happy to be there, too.
Weeks pass and again you're with him, looking into water; facing an endless abyss. Snow and cement outline the shore, and it feels like maybe that's what's covering your heart. At breakfast, he doesn't make eye contact. His Uber arrives and he kisses you goodbye. You know he means it.
What's changed, but time? Writing a love song can only happen, really happen, after living one.
When you return to your room and pick up your guitar, the chords he's taught you will escape from your fingertips. You'll feel stories unfold with every movement made, coaxing the subtleties of his nature out of their hiding spots.
It's the following October, and you're standing in front of a stage in Manhattan. On it is the man you've shared bed with for the month. He's strong, and he's pretty, and he's got all eyes on him. You remember the beaches, the time before. You know you're soon to return.
It's funny, because, now, there's a man playing the notes you taught him. What we are is cyclical—just a tornado of imprints passing through each other over and over—the alchemy of transfusing past with present, present with future, future with past.
There's many stereotypes when it comes to rockstars; they're flaky, they're slutty, they're chaotic and unruly. This is true of more than a few, I'm sure. This is true of myself, most of the time. I'm not a rockstar, but I've dated many who would like to be; who maybe are, in some world. What I've learned from it is this: nothing.
I'd do it all again.
Music is transcendent; music is a gift. It's a part of nature, each movement on Earth and in space is a song of the universe and it's neverending and it’s loud. When it's quiet, it's still loud. And it's really quite beautiful.
To sit idly in the birthing suite while a song comes to life; it feels exciting, maybe a bit nerve-racking. You want to help, but you're no doctor. You've never put on scrubs and rubber gloves; you’ve never held scalpel to skin.
But, then, it happens again, and this time, you've gone to school and your closet is filled with scrubs and you know exactly where to put your hands and how to bring life to light.
What's changed, but time? Writing a love song can only happen, really happen, after living one.
Most of my own favorites are filled with longing; aching lyrics about losing what you know you want and what you think you need.
Sad love songs are still love songs. Heartbreak is not the lack of love, but instead the ache of knowing love exists all around. Because, even when we think we aren't experiencing it, that it's not our turn for it, we are wrong. Love exists in sadness just as deeply as it exists in peace.
It's important to remember the reason the ache is so painful: because you know that love is so beautiful. And, maybe, you're just not ready to witness that yet. But, when you are, and the dark edges turn to gold, the ache will return once more to a hopeful wholeness. The love songs won't be sad anymore, but they'll still be love songs.
