For Amy

For Amy

Smoke curls in the air,

the sound of a broken heart pouring into a microphone.

A voice too big for the room,

too raw for the world that tried to shape it.

She sang like someone who had already lived too much,

who had felt every sharp edge of love,

who knew that longing never truly fades.

Her voice was a wound and a weapon,

soft as jazz, sharp as sorrow,

a confession disguised as a song.

She carried heartbreak like an old coat,

worn at the edges, heavy on her shoulders,

but beautiful in the way only truth can be.

They called it tragedy.

They called it waste.

But they didn’t understand

how some souls burn too brightly to last,

how some voices are too pure for silence to contain.

The chords carry her still,

spilling out of jukeboxes and open windows,

a ghost in the melody,

never really gone.

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