Music

Together we are a blank score, yet we are complete, treble and bass clefs transposed on top of one another; the lines within which we make our harmonies are our scars, the lines of our laughter, the scratches of heartache and love.

You read my body without eyes, writing the slow and gentle beginnings of the song our forms can compose – almost rhythm-less, and formless, because it flows as we do, as the fear that clothes us falls away, giving way to a swaying lilt.

Your hips are our bass line, grinding, pulling, setting the pace and the way the rhythm falls, and my voice rises up to echo your breath. Soprano overtones mark each pounding beat of that bass drum - sometimes slurring, sometimes staccato as you claw at my waistline.

Our every move is a new measure, a new line, a new page – changes to the melody come as I do. The frames of our bodies are no longer distinguished as separate or other, no – we are tangled in a complicated aria that wraps each note around us.

Pages turn and burn like fire, fire articulated by percussion. Frantic becomes the rhythm as the chorus doubles; my melody and yours twist and turn until the beginning of one is no longer discernible from the end of the other, and we crescendo and crash together like cymbals as the end takes us over.

Rest comes, a rest that could last hours or minutes, until we raise up our voices and our bodies like instruments to begin our new song.