TubaWalrus

There's a vivifying chill in the air tonight as I catch light at the end of its thousand year journey, ekeing out from a blackness obscured by more of its kind, and it makes me think of a night in technichromatic monocolour when the words on our lips and in our minds were of our place in that blackness, apart and together.

I'm not sure what it is about the way your voice wove through me that makes my body harmonize You tuned my thirds from minor to major laid me down, we lost our tonality and you struck a chord in the hall of my soul a theory as to why songs stick in your head is our working memory captures it and considers the tune 'unfinished business' Well, for years, my brain hums, on loop, a tune You played me Creating variations on your theme anguished meter shifts overlapping amused transcriptions I've composed a functional harmony to accompany your melody I'll rehearse the transition from inversion to transposition but the B section always destabili

Music is an ornate cloth, beautiful, carefully constructed, complete. But sometimes I can’t stop myself from adding to it. Under the right circumstances, I gather my needle and thread, and weave my thoughts, emotions, worries so effectively into the texture that you’d have to dismantle it to remove the memories. Music comes and goes, and can disappear into the back of my brain’s closet Stored away, itself storing the stitches of my experience I never know I’m doing it until I find the music again and the curtains come crashing down on top of me I swathe myself in chords, lyrics and the ineffability of raw emotion, a

Caught in your gravity Languid, elliptical orbits At perihelion, I am blasted with heat By the self-destruction of your fusion At aphelion, I am flying faster than I am falling