Something about Beethoven

It’s a tall order, this happiness business, I see it in the fractal dimensions of your eyes, the exhaustion of endless patterning in an effort to be understood, to understand. Sitting on the side steps of our house more than just another stranger taking a shortcut between bus stops. Your splintery presence demands attention. Attending to. You rise briefly, thin as good news. Arms and hands flailing trying to conduct the unruly day as you half sob half sing something about betrayal and Beethoven, before you crumple once more. I wish I could give you a fairy tale to throw yourself into, fill you with looking glass wonder and ugly duckling hope but I see you are some way yet from being storied to sleep, not bruised from a single pea under twenty mattresses because your blood runs blue but from the world’s shortcomings leaving their mark. From someone leaving their mark. If your foot is a perfect glass-slipper-fit it is a coincidence. Even the simplest dance step could shatter the illusion that you move to anybody’s music but your own. And I am no one. But let’s say at this particular crossroad that I am someone. That I am the last enchantress in a long line. That I have this small power to soften any curse.