You scratch my mind,
Like the needle on
Billie Holiday’s record—
One melancholic purr.
Despite its weight,
This droning alter-
Reality offers comfort
Out of silence.
I was the strings
On your well-loved guitar.
Struck in jocund company,
A transitory celebration—
You funk and I swing,
Star-crossed rhythms
United in ragtime fandangle.
These fads never last,
But the music does—
Its percussions reverberate
Off the walls where our laughter
Once echoed.
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