When my fingertips become the steepened cliffs of waterfalls, the palm side of my hand so intricately built like a sideways city, sinking, the drops of water on my hand look like time lapsed traffic, and everything is paused, spinning around me like proof of a pink rabbit that I am trying to find, It is not fluffy, it is stone in its silence and it is silence that comes here when I think I hear you, my heart a vintage record player waiting on your vinyl linings to linger you soft singing daughter of such a wonderful producer, you keep notes folded into your arms for the days when you and music are the only two things that will hold you and tell you that it’s still OK to feel like this, it’s still OK to believe that you can feel something in the future, the future is that part of the song that you are so anxiously awaiting, you make sense to me, a proposal that I will be so vaguely forward about, maybe I don’t need to find Fluffy tonight because I found you, you and I the pieces missing in the world, maybe your heart beat to be a song that changed my life, maybe your lips a dance tonight, held in the arresting hands of a choking guitar a top a roof top, a sound booth left to capture no less than the sound you produced, you’re beautiful with the recording light on, you’re beautiful when you are and nothing less than the noises we make, I say one night wrought of restless legs in a sleepless city, one night when the playlist is a man deciding to get sober, this place is a liquor store he is standing in when he makes this decision, you are a decision I will somehow make, I just do not know how to play your song yet, you said it is already here, my dear I fear to fall in love with you, your soundtrack is so sweet, what happens when the songs stop, what happens when liquor is all there’s left to drink, I do not believe in drinking alcohol just like I do not believe in listening to bad music, you are songbird, you are Nora, and infinite in all of your finite things, plentifully pinned of the kind of types that I find wonderful when in time’s teaching of finding these that mean something to me, nor a story, any less, the blind bid, the bride unsung but touched in lung, still, with the strumming of my own breathlessness, a couch we found in plain sight, our eyes to catch the sounds of our fingers when playing sign, I will sketch things into your arm, I will sketch the lyrics to my favorite songs onto the side of your neck, we will find them later and feel blessed by something so much bigger than us, I remember when my fingers were innocent, you make my fingers feel innocent, not like when they are the hardened clouds of downpours, the music turns my anxiety down, you seem to do the same thing, so maybe cheesy but hey I think we need this joke, I feel like we can be ear buddies, huddled together with the honest parts of ourselves aware of the fact that we are aware of the miniscule space that the electrons force between our bodies, acting like we’re trying not to settle into each other, one of us telling the other to wait because the part is coming up, smiles on our faces, not looking to each other, but still understanding the stillness, waiting for the hook, to catch us catching each other catching the others eyes…