Before we met I believed I was music. Improvising, forever rising and falling harmony.
I scan the skies and find you soaring; your wings stretched thin like cellophane, and an oblivious prey in your eyes. Cynical skies, alert and keenly blue, lap you up. They have known summers of rebirth and how time collapsed into verses gathering dust in a drawer.
Listen hard, for I can play upon circumstances. I am my own music.
also, after much aatlami: la di dah!