strum

There is a song written with me in it's chords. It started in a park in the mind of a musician. She carried it home to her guitar. Hands to wood, it slipped onto the strings to be strummed.

There's a neighborhood in Brooklyn, I remember from summer. And this song sits here or near, in winter, in the hands and mind of a musician.

I wonder, does this make me eternal? Do the chord's vibrations enter the universe, to be heard by something somewhere far? And will the strum say, 'it was for a forgettable lass somewhere in a place and a time long dead, but for this distant sound she is dust'?

There is something appealing about being forgotten, but for this one song. Maybe it's the only marker worth having.