You are beautiful, difficult. Rare. Outside, a new year’s snow and a frozen river, the winter smell of never. Inside, a fire so golden it glows a hollow focus in the now and ever after, in my mind I will compose a thousand letters, send none.
Given the dangers of nostalgia, it’s not a question of coming closer if (sister, lover?) my songs hover anxiously over a bare stage, an echo chamber, while only your own words could ever pin you to a page.
Still, you will switch off the lamp near the window, cast us both in shadow, the better to watch me dance, whiskey in a crystal glass in hand, asking what is beautiful about the music we’re hearing?
As if I understand how rhythm and its exhale, rapture, and your cheerful smile and my foolish laughter, in one quick glance over the shoulder of surrender answer nothing further than time. Time! Time.