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What does the notes I sing into the air (with such a sucking undefined voice) do?

Where do they go?

In what dimension they cross into falling up the ears of the recipient?

I think I enjoyed the expression of giving love (as in the verb of gifting a present with barely scratched wrapped paper covering a box, while the kid expects a bike) to someone at once.

But love... the stupidity of the ultimate foundation of peace and self fulfilment gets you wondering why even spend the time preparing for the next chance when all the things of the love of your life fades without you moving a muscle to stop it. In order to play the game of love you must be of steel, willing to give up the segment of your circular system.

So then, why give up the saliva and the breath coming out of your esophagus to sing a declaration of respect, appreciation, fear, dependence, and utter devotion to someone that might as well not exist.

You sing into the air.

You sing into the walls around you.

But you never sing to yourself.

And now, even if it's true that you were somehow soldering the scraps of rusted metal you left behind (if you have any spare parts left) to rebuild some form of armor or home to the next chance of sleeping held by dear arms.

Could you sing them those songs?

Could you take them to the same spot?

Could you promise her the same things you did to the others?

You can't even keep the promises to yourself.

Your promises of success have failed.

A game, of tiny little pixels...

a promise of a legacy and all you got were rejections from the professionals.

And in those suited fancy offices they can calmly reject you as cleanly as a strike of a rapier piercing your aorta.

Same does the woman (or man) that gives up on you, telling you to get better, and to learn your lesson.

But here I am. Singing those songs from years ago, when they reminded me of you, and you, and you. And I can't know anymore who's who.

Did I hold your hand that time? Or was it the other's hand.

Was it her, or her?

Did I sing it to you, or to you? or to you?

You were the one that liked that song, or was it me? or was it her? or was it her? or was it you?

I can't remember their faces, but only her eyes, but only her stare, but only her body, but only her hands, but only her house, but only her voice, but only my chest, but only my thoughts, but only my misery.

The deception and the humiliation of starting over again (for the x10^101) is unbearable and such is nothing (or harakiri) preferred, or obliged.

You can't form a smile from the ashes of tears and failure.

Eventually condemning you to never form something new.