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.