I never listened to her before I met him. Ironically enough, I'd never even heard of her until after he came into my life. But then I knew his name, held his hand, heard his voice. And she became a regular in my life, her mournful voice trying to fill in the emptiness he had left gaping. Others found her strange words and piano chords depressing, but within those same lyrics and notes I found asylum. They did not understand her, only a select few did and I perversely preferred it that way. It was a way of keeping her all to myself.
The day he broke my heart I remember watching his back as he turned to leave. One hand was casually in his pocket, his entire body moving to a rhythm only a musician could insert into something as trivial as a gait. I didn't want him to leave. Once he was gone, the silence would explode, permeating through everything, invading every pore. As long as he stayed, no matter how quiet he was, the silence could not conquer. Despite my unspoken pleading, he slipped past the door and only a wooden door was staring back at me.
It was easy enough to turn to my laptop and turn on the music. I had listened to the song before, but that afternoon was the first time I truly heard it.
*No one's picking up the phone, guess it's me and me.*
Once it finished, I immediately replayed it, hating the split second of silence that shattered through me when the last piano note reverberated and then died. From then on, I listened to it when writing my papers, while going to sleep, anytime, just to keep the silence from assaulting me. There was a time when I'd play it for three hours on repeat, mouthing the words, convinced no one in the world understood the pain occupying my entire body. No one except Jupiter. And somewhere along the line, I became Jupiter. Or she became me.
*Nothings been the we both could use a friend to run to.*
Time passed. I eventually allowed myself to play other songs of hers. The boy and I kept in touch, an awkward relationship emerged-one that could not be placed under a confining label. My heart was slowly put back together; each time that song played, a small piece was mended, albeit painfully so. It's almost as good as new, but not quite. It'll never be new again, its novelty was raped with the knowledge that is first love. It's a bit more weathered, a bit sadder, and, hopefully, a bit less easily given away.
*Guess I thought I could never feel the things I feel.*
I don't cry anymore when I hear the piano keys being pressed on in a familiar succession. But that heart I was so sure was placed back together will have one final piece dangling loosely when she hits those high notes.

Hey Jupiter is written and performed by Tori Amos