We’re both minor scales, our initial notes climbing together in sweet harmony. But further on, the progression goes awry. The key changes; the staff begins to crumble. Eventually, the notes have nothing on which to rest, and the rests are nowhere to be found.
I find beauty in the broken staff. A half written song is better than silence. I’ll replay the parts I know until the record is ruined. I can dance alone; though, I’d prefer your hand at my waist, the other interlaced with mine. I yearn to feel that soft lead, perhaps even a stronger one, guiding me back and left and forward and right, until my world blurs and your face is center.
I hope our dance begins a second. Let the broken chords mark our steps from ballroom to bedroom. Here we can strip away those layers, letting skin meet skin. Our heat melts fingertips to hips. How I find the hollow of your throat or that bend between muscle below the shoulder, I’ll never know. Perhaps my familiarity arises from visual repetition, replaying images as often as our song.
I need this opportunity to memorize your hills and valleys. The landscape never achieved definition in my mind, and I hate being blind. Deprived am I of even dreams. They can’t contain a voice, an intonation. Perhaps then I could resolve this on my own. But for now, I’ll take your body in the dark, ceaselessly hoping for a day in the light. Because feeling you fall in love with me helped me fall in love with myself.
When I said I wanted everything, I intended no lie. In fact, I still relish moments recalling this image: you parting my legs, slipping between, pressing your lips to mine. I can hear your moans (or maybe mine) with striking clarity. The tension in my legs bleeds away, making room for your love. I will never not want this. I will never not need it.
I will spend years dissecting us, longer considering the possibilities. I will pretend you still act as though you know me. Because the alternative is unthinkable. I will be forgotten. I will fade from view, and newer ones will take my place. And I will try to prevent anger seeping in and soiling the photographs I still keep. In moments alone, I’ll find myself humming that tune from a half-finished song.