Poetry: The Musicians Wife

As a musician's wife, often I play mistress to the music.  When the music calls to them, they must go - they must turn everything off and give their entire being to the vibrations in that moment; and it doesn't come from you.  

It doesn't include you, need you, want you nor does your presence make it better. You must be removed. 

You may not feel it, hear it, or even 'get it' but you can, as the watcher, get something that no one else can... their "contemplation face".  You, in a dark corner, trying not to interrupt, see something no one else does. Like an undergarment kept in the back of the drawer, a part of their intimate self that only starts to relax and unfold when someone really feels safe. 

Like an 'O face', its going to come to them when moments before epiphany strike. An orgasm of music, harmony of soul, completion of a project, relief is on the brim.  The hairs on their neck are about to go up and they've been purging emotions to find the sweet spot and they're almost too exhausted to continue.  Three beers down, fingers numb, guilt spilling into their thoughts and hopefully it comes. 

Deep contemplation amidst the craziness of life. 

Something salvaged. 

Saved. 

Dark moments in the studio when the rest of the world is watching. I feel like a naughty school-girl watching my professor prepare a lecture, getting inside tips before all the rest of the class gets to hear it. Perfection before its perfected; a raw stage.  An intellectual stalking session and you, the gazer, must hush all your emotions in the midst of theirs. You get to be lazy, removed, un-responsible and maybe... just maybe... get to see the rare faces of Contemplation and Completion.