Page 83 of Everything In Between
I sit back and watch her work her magic.
Her voice echoes through the living room, swirling and taking shape as if it’s an entity all its own. Similar to the first time I saw her perform, I find myself falling under her spell. Her words wrap around me and consume my every thought.
As she finishes the first verse and begins the chorus she opened with, I reflect on the meaning. Her words are descriptive, all coming together to tell the story of where she started and ultimately—what I’m assuming—is leading to where she is today.
Her tone grows stronger once she hits the crescendo of her chorus. Her eyes flash to mine and she fights off a smile, clearly appreciating how I’m hanging on her every word.
How could I not? She’s an artist, weaving together pieces of the English language to create the most intricate story, highlighting her journey and her struggles.
I’m mesmerized by her, fully and irrevocably entranced.
All that’s left
Is a piece of me
A piece of my soul
That’s broken and blue
It’s one regret, a broken dream
Begging to be true
Leaving behind
Only a piece for you
Jersey’s struggle with her creative identity is one I know she’s been dealing with for most of her career. She’s hinted at the levelof despair she has about not being granted any creative freedom, but this song alone shows me that those feelings run far deeper than what she’s hinted at.
Jersey transitions into the bridge of the song, taking the melody and changing the key a bit so it stands out. Subconsciously or not, her posture changes as she gets ready to lead into this next section. Her shoulders square, her spine straightens, and the wistful expression she has on her face morphs into one of determination.
They won’t stop me
I’ll keep trying
I’ll keep going
Never backing down
I’ll never give up
I’ll never stop fighting
Until all that’s left are the words
That together create a piece of me
She strums a few more chords and hums along to the melody, her face taking on that wistful expression once again. My pulse is pounding in my ears, mixing with the beat of her song.
Slowly, she finishes out the song and then lets the final note linger a bit longer, dissolving into the silence of the room around us.
Our gazes lock and I suck in a deep breath, unable to put into words what I’m feeling. It’s a mix of admiration that I got to listen to a personal concert performed by her, and gratitude that she’d show me the most intimate parts of herself.
Slowly, I reach for her, taking the neck of her guitar and carefully setting it off to the side. She tracks my every move, watching with interest to see what I’ll do next.
When her guitar is safely placed next to her, I wrap my hand around her wrist, urging her closer to me.
“Come here,” I murmur. She comes willingly, not needing much coaxing until she’s climbing back onto the couch.
