That insistent strumming presses beneath the surface of his melancholy voice,
Calling forth the stories we’d long forgotten,
as we moved forward.
But something inside our bodies remembers
That tune, that voice,
That universal longing.
His song reaches back through the veils of time
And pulls forward the tapestry of history
Laying it out across the new landscapes we are trying to carve out for ourselves.
The intricate weaving creating new shapes over our emboldened bodies.
Stitches unfurling as our curves remix the melody.
We remember, then, our own taste for longing.
A salty, wind-blown scent.
Breathing hot across our skin.
We drop the weight of all that history then
and step out naked
purple light glinting off our shoulders shimmying
as the dark beast uncoils.
rhythm, writhing, rolling in our ribs
as we dance.
And they say it’s just a song.