It is the only one who hears me. I am the only one who sings to it. One silver microphone with my highest moments, along with my lowest. One who is fixed to my bedroom. One microphone there to hear my thoughts. From the living room, my family hears my words, but want me to share with others.
It’s voice mocks mine. It’s delicate songs echo throughout my house. It hears my own voice and extends it further than I can imagine, the sound piercing the silence throughout my house. This is how it works.
As each thought flows through my mouth, it listens to me, repeating every word as it agrees. Yes, yes, yes. It understands.
When I am too sad or overly excited, when I am one singer against so many others, that is when we communicate. When there is little left to say. One who grew old. One who remains with thousands of memories. One whose only memories are the equivalent of mine.