by Meghan Butcher

She is effervescent,
waiting between notes
Woven into vibrations
like tangled pinkie fingers.
She is not of my world,
does not belong
among hollow ribs
and haunted substances
and sour ledger lines.
Heavy steps in rich soprano;
Cheeks like F major
Yet somehow falling
for suspended chords,
for timid tremolos,
for an up-swept and flighty
neverland girl.
She will soon grow up,
but you will never get old.
Youth is fleeting
but gods
it is sweet.
She’s decadence in a dress
with roses in its hair
and how could she love the likes of me?

I remain silent.
Voice no concern.
Her lips taste of music.