music

I do remember.

Kneeling between the speakers and the sound connecting with all those tone-shaped spaces in my spine and my joints and my groin. Little connections in my head, cells clapping hands and sticking, like the stuff of addiction, the music fusing physically.

So this is sex. More so than the furtive masturbatory moments which is physical and nothing more. This closing of eyes and opening up to sound is like romantic love. It is the taste of shapes, or colour that is all olfactory delight, it is the mixing up of things that is more about sex than sex itself.

He leaves for a while and I run for the colours that sink into the tips of my fingers and make my fingernails smell blue. I plug my headphones in and play music that is love. Love is how I feel and has nothing to do with anyone except myself. This big echoey space inside me large enough for music and art and literature to squeeze in beside my lover and the handful of friends I have picked to stay with me. You and the music. Today there is the music. Today therefore there is love and I said it to you in passing. That word, love.

I love you anyway without all the rest of the mess I make of things. That word love that is only about me ultimately and the giving over to something that is akin to song.