the musings of a poet
There wasn’t exactly a reason as to why Remus chose to spend his time in the park after work; it wasn’t as if he had anything to hide from, unless you counted the dishes. The sun was almost glaring at him, as if it was angry he decided to spend his time here, but the joke was on him, because Remus’ bench was under a tree, shaded from the harsh rays. He could freely observe life here; if he overheard an argument that hit close to home, or saw a child so carefree he was jealous, he would write his thoughts into poetry.
Remus didn’t consider himself a poet, though Lily had tried to tell him that he was. Perhaps in another life, if he was living in the eighteenth century and rich enough for the words themselves to not matter so.
The air smelt strongly of fresh grass, and Remus was thankful he took a hayfever tablet that morning or else he would have been sneezing so frequently, it would have attracted attention. He liked observing from the outside, it was calmer than trying to integrate into the scene before him.
There were children screaming and laughing as they thought the swings would take them to the sky where they could touch the clouds: there were lovers who admired the way the trees would caress their cheeks as they past, encouraging them to lean into their partner; there were friends whose laughter was more melodic than the windchimes Remus’ mother kept outside her window, expressing a fondness for each other and an enjoyment of life with them.
Remus wrote what he could see as quickly as he could, before the ideas slipped from his grasp to be lost among the flowers themselves. His words were based on the idea of his feelings, not the world he saw:
‘Do you have a habit of hiding,
Behind words on paper?
Or perhaps I can’t understand what it’s like
To live for yourself…’
He couldn’t figure out how he wanted to end the line.
He knew the feeling.
This was what frustrated him about poetry. It was never the message he wanted to say that got muddled, but the words he would use to communicate it.
It was the feeling he got when he saw a child stand in front of another without a thought, to protect them from a threat; the feeling he got when he saw the one sided love of the couple who just past by, as one talked passionately about something whilst the other looked bored; the feeling he got when friendships fall apart before his eyes, leaving someone to pull at the grass as the other walks away.
He realised what he had to write:
‘To live for yourself,
When I’d let you ground my bones to dust.’
With a small smile tugging at his lips at the line, he closed his notebook.
He wasn’t sure how the poem related to him yet, but eventually, he would realise what it was he wanted to tell himself. Maybe he was missing his old friends, or perhaps he craved the kind of love you can only get in books.
It was then, he could hear the familiar sound of a guitar, blowing through the park like the breeze itself.
Remus had yet to find who it was that was playing the instrument, and he wasn’t too sure if he wanted to, but the guitar started at the same time everyday, like clockwork. It was soft, sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but the melody always caused a shift through-out the park. The children would stop running and chose to walk instead, the couples would stop admiring the trees and admire each other, and friends would take to lying in the grass, holding hands whilst they talked about everything and nothing.
If there was anything Remus wished he could do, it was whatever this guitarist was doing. Remus hadn’t been much for playing instruments - he had never had the hand-eye coordination for it, or the patience.
The songs were always the same, with some slight deviations as the guitarist developed them, and they always started playing at four-thirty in the afternoon, just after the church bells stopped echoing.
Humming to the tune, Remus felt his heart reach out and touch the sound; a feeling of urgency washed over him as he understood what the song was about. He scrambled for his notebook:
‘I hope someday
You find your way ashore
And you tell someone, anyone
What’s in that head of yours.
The world won’t always seem against you
The voice in you won’t always be true
I hope you screamed the way you wanted too
Build yourself to someone who forgives you.
It’s been a while
Since we last spoke
Maybe now I can see
How it is that we’re to grow.
Will you stop giving yourself away to them
And remember it’s not you I condemn
I couldn’t live my life for others to devour
But I'm sorry I didn't choose you.’
As his scribbling stopped, the soft plucking of the guitar strings did too, and Remus felt an urge to find them, more than he had ever felt before. It wasn’t often he wanted to involve himself in life, in the places he sat to drink in the feelings of the world.
It was even rarer he ever wished to share a poem, but he felt as if he’d written about something that would have more meaning to the guitarist than it ever would to him. He ripped it from his notebook, shoving his belongings into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder. He knew the guitarist usually played a few more songs than just one, but he couldn’t hear their guitar.
He followed the path, hoping the guitarist wouldn’t be too far from it, and as he rounded the corner, that was when he got the first glimpse of who was playing.
Remus was not afraid to admit that the man was absolutely beautiful - he would be afraid to say it aloud however. The guitarist had soft looking, dark hair which spilled over his shoulders, and Remus was fascinated to see his fingers move so quickly and quietly across the neck of the guitar, as if he was trying to commit what he had just played to memory. He was sat crossed-legged on the grass, as if he were the main character in an indie film.
When the guitarist glanced up at Remus (who was openly staring), he quickly looked away, a blush spreading across his face as he scrunched the paper in his hand. “You’re the writer,” the guitarist said, and Remus snapped his head up to see the guitarist smiling at him.
Remus nodded meekly. “You’re,” he began, shaking his free hand by his side. “You’re the guitarist,” he replied, making the other laugh, throwing his head back.
“Sirius,” he introduced.
Remus furrowed his eyebrows. “I was being serious,” he replied, making the guitarist burst into laughter, waving his hand in front of him.
“No no,” he said in-between breaths. “My name, it’s Sirius,” he explained, and Remus felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.
“Oh,” Remus said, bringing a hand to his hair. “Oh,” he repeated. “God, I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning away from the man, who chuckled.
“Don’t worry, I make the same joke all the time,” Sirius grinned, and Remus was unsure of what to say next, so he simply stuck out his hand, offering Sirius the piece of paper.
“I’m sorry if this is weird,” Remus began to say, still refusing to look at the man before him. “But I wrote this for the song you were playing,” he said, risking a glance at the man who was watching Remus with a small smile. “It took me a while, but I think I know the feeling the song is about.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow at him as he placed his guitar on the grass, standing up to carefully take the piece of paper from him, as if sudden movement would scare Remus away. “What do you think it’s about?” he asked, not reading what was on the paper.
Remus took a deep breath. “It’s a melancholic feeling,” he began, running a hand through his hair. “Sort of how you’d feel after a mutual break-up,” he said, watching as Sirius’ eyes burrowed into his. “You want to do more, make things alright again, but it’s better for you to leave than it is for you to force a relationship when circumstances won’t allow you to. You want to go, but at the same time you want to stay.”
There was silence between the two of them, as neither decided to speak. Sirius seemed amused but his eyebrows were slightly furrowed too. Then, almost making Remus run for the hills, Sirius let out a burst of laughter, though it wasn’t joyous as it had been before, this time it seemed tired. “No one else has been able to figure it out yet,” Sirius said, turning his head to look at the sky.
It was now Remus’ turn to furrow his eyebrows. “Perhaps they haven’t truly listened,” he said, instantly chastising himself, but Sirius nodded.
“Perhaps not.”
Remus didn’t wish to wait around whilst Sirius read his poem, but as the guitarist opened the paper, he couldn’t seem to will his legs to run, or even walk away.
It was only when Sirius’ eyes began to scan the last few lines of the poem, that his body seemed to turn to walk away, but Sirius caught his wrist. As Remus looked up at the man, he saw Sirius was scrunching up his eyes, his breathing somewhat uneven. “Thank you,” Sirius whispered, holding the poem to his chest. “You have no idea what this - this is exactly -” he tried to say, but Remus placed a hand over his.
“I’m glad it means something to you,” he said, as Sirius let go of his wrist.
As he walked away, he looked back to see Sirius staring at the paper, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, and Remus remembered why he loved to write.
-----
“I’m sorry, you did what?” Lily asked, for the seventh time that day. Normally Remus loved his shifts alongside Lily, she was witty, and often tended to put Remus’ thoughts into perspective when he wound himself around them.
Remus sighed, glancing around the bookshop in the hopes of seeing a lost customer, but he wasn’t fortunate enough. “I found the guitarist in the park, and gave him one of my poems,” he replied, flicking through the book in front of him, as if he was trying to find something.
Lily hummed. “Because that is absolutely something you do all the time,” she drawlled. “Seriously Remus, what about this bloke was different?”
He took a deep breath. “You’ve heard the songs he plays, right?” Remus asked, turning to look at Lily who nodded.
“I have.”
“When I wrote the poem, it didn’t feel like my poem,” Remus tried to explain, and he saw Lily sigh with a small smile. “I felt as if I had to give it to the guitarist.”
LIly shook her head with a smile. “Did you get his number?” Remus went to reply but Lily put her hand up. “No. Did you give him your name? Also no.”
Remus rolled his eyes. “It didn’t feel important,” he mumbled, still flicking through the book in front of him. “Besides, how difficult can it be to find him again?” he asked.
“Remus, we live in Manchester,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Do you know how many guitarists there are in this city?” she asked, leaning against the counter.
“Called Sirius, who like to play at exactly four thirty every day?” Remus asked, albeit a little smug.
“I still feel like that name is oddly familiar,” she muttered to herself. Lily threw her hands in the air. “Fine, fine, you have a point, but I still think you’re a complete idiot.”
Remus snorted. “Noted.”
As the store was relatively empty, Remus decided to start placing more books on the shelves to avoid Lily’s questioning. It was the worst part of working at a bookshop, but at the same time, weirdly satisfying to do. He was thankful that the owner didn’t mind how they ordered the books, as long as there was some sort of consensus between employees; this left Remus to order the books however he wished.
When he heard the bell above the door to the shop ding, he glanced over to see James enter. “Hey Remus,” he called over, and Remus nodded at him, never too sure how he was supposed to talk to his friend's boyfriend. “Evans,” he grinned, and Lily rolled her eyes.
“I’m at work James,” Lily said, and whilst her tone suggested she was annoyed, her smile said otherwise.
“Only for another twenty-two minutes,” James protested, and Remus couldn’t help but smile at them both. They were in the honeymoon phase, where they were full of absolute glee at the very existence of the other, and Remus wasn’t too sure they’d ever leave that phase. Remus remembered a few months ago when Lily was annoyed by James, and how found him arrogant, self-centred, and an outright pain - how times change. Apparently, the entire situation which led to her dislike of him had been a misunderstanding: lies and fabrications of someone she considered to be a friend.
“You can leave early if you want,” Remus said, as he came back to the counter.
Lily turned to him. “Really?” she asked. “You’ll be okay by yourself?”
Remus gestured to the shop. “Because we are bombarded with customers right now,” he deadpanned, laughing when she swatted his arm. “Go,” he insisted. “I can close up by myself.”
“You’re a gem,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And don’t forget to search for your guitarist after, and get his number this time,” she insisted, staring him down until he raised his hands.
“All right, all right, I’ll make sure to talk to him,” Remus said, biting back a smile.
James looked between the two of them, confused. “Guitarist?” he asked, as Lily went to retrieve her things from the back.
“Ignore her,” Remus smiled, and James furrowed his eyebrows. “She thinks I’ve met the quote unquote love of my life.”
James chuckled. “She does tend to have a knack for these things though,” he said, and before Remus could ask him to elaborate, Lily returned, linking her arm through James’ and dragging him from the store.
“See you soon Remus!” she called out, as James waved goodbye.
Remus sighed, smiling to himself. Lily truly was a whirlwind of a person, but she was the closest friend he had ever had, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.
The remaining time on his shift passed rather dully, with Remus wandering around the shop to simply stare at book titles.
He had never been happier for his shift to end.
The walk to the park wasn’t very far - the benefits of working on the outskirts of the city - but the day wasn’t as calm as the previous, with the clouds looking as if they were ready to burst any moment, and unleash a storm upon the streets below, feeding the earth, but ruining Remus’ jumper.
It was weather like this though, that he loved the most. When it had the possibility of changing any moment; when it could go from beautiful indifference to horrifying anger. It reminded Remus of the temperament of people (himself included).
He breathed in the cold air, feeling it settle in his stomach and leave him a bit dizzy. There weren’t many cars about, but Remus expected that the main streets weren’t blocked with traffic yet, so there was no need for side streets.
The rain began just as he walked into the park, though it was light, barely noticeable unless you were waiting for it. Remus sighed, knowing he was going to have to leave soon, or else he’d catch a cold, but he still wanted to sit for a bit, and listen to the rain hit the trees.
Approaching his bench, the wind grew, and the rain thickened, as if he had moved to stand next to a waterfall rather than a bench.
He noticed someone sitting on the bench, a guitar case leaning to the side of them.
They turned around, and Remus locked eyes with Sirius, who stood just as the worst of the rain began. They were soaked through in seconds and Remus glad to have a waterproof bag, his eyelashes dripping rain into his eyes, but the shock from seeing Sirius waiting by his bench froze him in place.
“Write another poem for me.”