You sang me a song that I can’t quite remember. The melody’s stuck in my head. You sang, “Anna Marie,” and you sang it to me. Don’t know what I’d give to hear you again. I’d drink in the sound of an old grand piano and an amateur song about love. You never confessed who this Anna Marie was. Then, you sang a new verse you said you’d just written. The lyrics have escaped my mind. You sang poetically while you smiled right at me. How did I miss what you’d meant to tell me? I just smiled back, mesmerized by the spell of your voice on the air, singing, “I see you, want to hold you, and we said we’d just be friends.” You and I—we faded out like the last measure of the song, resonating softer, softer, and softer. You grew tired of the song and rewrote note by note. Soon enough, there were no love lines in it. The more you revise, the more you tell lies. The raw tone in your voice was perfection when you first sang, “Oh Anna Marie. I loved you.” Now, I’m sorry that I didn’t see, by Anna Marie, you’d meant you loved me.