The boy who loved to be alone
surprised you one day.
He really had something to say
and looked at you—you felt it in your back as you walked away.
“If only I could be as melancholy as Bach,” he said laughing,
“then I would automatically be a musician to honor and obey!”
I loved the boy who loved to be alone.
It is easy to love such a boy!
But he ran after me, once, and I fled into a crowd.
He wasn’t as lonely as I thought. His loneliness had a tendency
to spread. I was afraid it would bring other people in.
What would his loneliness be worth then?
Was he really lonely? Look at that grin.
He may have looked lonely, but for whom did he write his poetry?
He was right about Bach. Oh the melancholy!
But when others were around, and humor and noise prevailed,
the spell was broken. Like us, he needed a job. He needed to get paid.
He wasn’t immortal. Despite the fact he loved to be alone
and smiled at nothing, I knew—and I was happy I knew—he was afraid.