You never sang for me. Despite my entreaties, my pleading. My repeated questions, at random, at moments I thought you might reciprocate. I sang snatches of song all the time: here and there, along with a track, humming as we promenaded awkwardly across a city you hated [disclosure: interpretative]. I sang in the shower when I was happy [aspectual hook, past tense (possible lie)]. I played the songs my old band had put onto record. You sat there, dumb as a stone, and you never sang, for me. Except for one time, one time I remember very clearly. You were cooking, in the kitchen, the door shut, against whatever I was doing [metaphor, only partially untrue].
I think I had music on, of some sort. There was always something playing, always my choice [heavy-handed; domineering; suffocating]. I turned it down, maybe, I can’t remember [selective memory when indulging in nostalgia]. You never played a single damn track off the collected ABBA I bought you [demonstrative request], but this was on Spotify, on your laptop, in the kitchen, door shut against whatever I was doing [repetition, cohesion], when you felt some kind of contentment. And you were singing.
And it was nice, and your voice was pleasant, and I listened. I listened for as long as I could bear. I didn’t listen all that long. Because you never sang for me.