She did a cover of a song not yet written. Sang to her in many a dream. It began in magnificence, like the cascade of feathers in a blissful pillow fight, but it didn’t come out right. She only knew the harmony. His swollen heart beats incomplete as she scrambles to fill it with bits of love, but she grabs the wrong pieces and leaves the song on a half note with no bridge or chorus or third verse or applause. In flustered defeat a declaration of redemption is proclaimed to be sounded with a chorus of angels on a golden guitar executed with calloused fingertips, deserving of a standing ovation. If she only knew…she could have sang Mary Had a Little Lamb out of tune and he would have been happy.