Singer.

There's a song you once gave me. Keep it, you said. It's great, huh?

I put the song in my pocket and kept it there, listening only to the tiniest bits and pieces. I only let the whole song play through on special occasions; those times you looked away, or late at night when the wind howled through snow drifts.

I kept that song in my pocket until, bit by bit, it started to lose it's appeal. By then it was long forgotten by you. Listen to this, you told me half-heartedly. It's great, right?

Sing it to me first, I said. And then I'll listen. You shook your head no.

And then another you came by, held out a hand and sang to me a sweet tune. Here, the other you said, it's all yours.

Slowly, carefully, I took the song the first you had given me. It was crumpled, ripped, faded, forgotten. I let that song fall gently to the ground, and walked with the other you, the you who wasn't afraid to serenade.