it’s a cold winter evening.
i am warm inside my igloo (room)
with my finger poised forever above the same key.
it’s a cold winter evening
i am splashed paint on the violet [sky]canvas
taking my breath square inch by circular foot, i
can’t breathe (and i don’t quite know if i want to)
pianoforte in the background of my backdrop consciousness
where we drift:
it’s a high school story written with a college pen
on professionalsomethinggraduate paper
read line by shaky line.
we know the story;
we can predict the characters’ next moves so
ignoring the silly narrator
we study each other and learn the language of ‘i feel’
and together in sleep we nestle close
as the jazz roots of my jazz mind wraparound us both
pull us deep into history
(which we are making together)