March brought my voice for the first time
something written on a cold day while waiting for him and then
later read into a recorder with deliberation – without thought to
numb fingers gripping a pen
to save those words that just wouldn’t stop
like the smile
from listening to his song
the way every note taught different pieces of my body yet undiscovered words for combustion
captured onto any stray scrap of paper to be found
the margins of a schedule.
Maybe he never knew that what it really meant was that I’d never recover from the moment
that deep inhalation of breath in a space between chords
maybe he never knew that i wouldn’t stop listening.
Something happens in the span of time between making music and hearing music
the laws of space and time that allow one hand striking a chord—even
a million miles away—to produce an actual physical response in the body
of someone else. touching without touching.
These moments when we
When we listen long enough.
What he said
maybe it’s a conversation
two voices saying
i don’t want you to go.
but I have to go.
over and over again
until the disjunction reforms
mixing into a unification.
and he breathes at just the right spot
when the dissonance between
metal and metal
metal and flesh
and the separateness returns
the plucking of chords
into sounds that need no other name