Four Four Time

Your bones underneath my fingers,

I put you together like an archaeologist

rediscovering beauty.

They told me in school to appreciate art

and I smirked in the back corner with my cell phone

in my hand snapping photos like

the boys pretend to snap tins of Skoal.

I trace where your spine meets the

sweat in the arch of your back;

and I find ways to move the bass line

through my chest into yours.

Music History was required

and the teacher said to appreciate technique

because beauty is in

intricacy.

Isn't there that famous quote?

Music is the silence

between

the notes.

The silence between your mouth

and mine is deafening.

You've got to breathe, baby.

Muscles tight, I string you together

and jerk you around as if you're

Pinocchio but

please don't lie to me (I know you're

afraid to be seen with a girl

like me).

He told me to hear the repetition,

the four four,

three four,

six eight time

(as if there is any difference).

I rocked my chair back and hit the wall.

Breathe: the music makes me need you

and it's push,

pull,

the violence is all I ever needed.

Slam me down and sweat me hard.

Your bones underneath my fingers,

one, two, three, four,

and the silence starts again

as if it's the music that needs us.