“Either that song is too long
or the rest are too short,”
she says of the music flowing
like waves from my mind.
(my music is black and she loves it.
her music is blue-tinged and I love it)
We’re on a psychic holiday,
our brains communing like
hungry fish in a bowl of thoughts,
dreams, and morsels of meaning.
When we return home, everything
feels tilted and unsure, and we
stumble through our truncated lives,
holding our breath until we escape again.