Here you are. Eighty-four staircases
and daisy chains later, and here
you are, listening again.
You think there is something about a kiss
that feels like a song:
you hope your children by now
have felt that too.
Every time you drop your glasses,
the sound of them hitting the ground
opens a door for a split second.
Through it, you can see the ropes
that pull the stars out every night,
and the puzzle pieces that fit oceans and cities
together like chords.
Your headphones wore out years ago.
You miss the way you used to put them on
and play with time,
the days and moments slipping under
your fingers like wet sand,
while light went on for miles in both directions.
You are here now, alone. Listening.
Thinking there is something about a song
that feels like a kiss.