You Have My Attention
Based off the song 'You Have My Attention' by Copeland. HP belongs to Jo. Review?
He sat on the train, staring out the window. The moon was shining; the sky was cloudless. He held his hands in his lap and thought about her.
Vaguely, he could hear her voice, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. He could hear her lullaby over thousands of miles, and his brow folded in a strange pain he didn't want to feel. As the train rattled along the tracks at midnight, he found himself being pulled farther and farther away from her. He let his head fall back against the headrest, and told his tired heart to rest.
Stepping onto the platform of an unfamiliar city was nothing new, and neither was the overwhelming sadness he felt as he lifted his shoulder bag and continued into the city. He hummed little bits and pieces, little snippets of songs she used to sing, and his heart panged gently to the rhythm. He hoped she could hear him, wherever she was.
He let his feet do the walking while he thought about his past; that was, after all, what he ended up doing more often than not. He thought about her amazing smile, that had captured and captivated him, so very long ago. He thought about a smile that made his chest crack in all its coldness, bringing forth the new beating of a formerly cold heart. Her sighs put breath in his lungs. Her eyes lit up his vision. Sometimes, he liked to think that he was made only for her; that she created him for no one else.
It was just her voice that touched him, so quiet yet loud in an empty room. She could say nothing but mean everything, and he held onto every word and silence he'd ever stolen from her, because each meant a world's worth.
He found himself turning down a dirt path, into a steep meadow. Tombstones were scattered along the hills, and he kept trudging through the nearly dead grass, so high it brushed the middle of his thighs in bitter wisps.
He sang louder, now, his voice carrying in the night wind. He could hear the echoes of his voice, and the pain in his words, and kept singing; he knew, that somewhere, wherever she was, she was listening.
He found it with ease; it was the only one with a path through the dead grass. He knelt beside it, softly, careful not to stand directly in front of it.
Still singing, he reached into his bag and pulled out roses, kept safe with different spells from the long ride there. He had promised her, one day, he would bring her roses from shore of the pacific ocean. Now they were piled in a montage of colors in front of her tombstone, the reds and yellows still vibrant in the moonlight.
He didn't wipe away his tears as he sat before her, reading the words he knew only too well. Although he wept, he didn't stop singing; laying his head on his bag, stretched beside her grave, he continued to sing, even as the air grew stiffly cold and the wind began to snap painfully at his face.
He continued to sing for her, while she slept her life away. He continued to keep her safe, even as the cold grew to blistering and his limbs shook and trembled.
He wouldn't leave. He had brought her a dream, and he was waiting for his; someday, he knew, they would be together. If he had to wait for it, then fine. He was raised as a stubborn boy, and would not move until he had his way.
He kept singing until the words were mere croaks from his mouth, uttered from bloody, cracked lips. Even as his eyes closed and he was enveloped into that earth-quaking darkness, he was thinking of her.
Before the cold covered him completely, he whispered, "You have my attention."
The next morning, her mother arrived with gifts for her birthday. She would've been twenty-two. Molly wiped away a tear.
The valley sounded odd this morning; it had a certain ring to it, somehow. She lifted her boots high through the snow and continued on, checking it off as a hallucination.
No, she was certain she heard it now, as she neared Ginny's grave. There was a certain melody in the air, a certain long, soft lullaby that promised good things. She lifted her basket back into her elbow and lifted her skirt, trudging on up the hill.
When she found him, he had been gone for hours, at most. His fingers, bleeding and curled around the sides of her daughter's tombstone, were still clutching the rock, and his face, eyes closed, was scrunched up with pain.
She cried out when she saw him, dropping the basket into the snow. She knelt beside him, shaking him, but his blue lips took no breath and his chest made no heave.
Shaken, she sat back in the snow, staring at the roses, who, despite the long cold they had lain through, were still as bright and vibrant as ever.
Hands trembling, she attempted to lift them; they didn't budge. Wiping her tears away, she fingered the card that was tied around the stems.
"I'll sing alone for you," it read. "You have my attention."
Quiet now. I'll sing alone You have my attention I'll sing alone I'll sing alone You have my attention.
Your voice sings miles away
but somehow I hear your song resound
A little bit softer each day
And from my tired heart, a little bit farther away.
The whole day through.
Just do your best to hear me.
It's all you can do.
Like you've had all the while,
Since that first day when you made my heart smile,
With loving eyes and tired sighs that follow.
You have my attention
Like a shout through an empty sanctuary.
Speak but a whisper;
I'll hear a sermon
the whole day through.
Just do your best to hear me.
It's all you can do.
the whole night through.
While you sleep safely,
I'll be thinking about you.