She lives above me, sings with birds
and records from the 60s.
Vinyl isn’t final now, replaced with buds
she wears beneath her hair
that twists and swings to music
only she can hear. I hear her
dance down flights of stairs,
her steps a beat beat beat.
To her, rain puddles are to leap.
She doesn’t know I cry
those puddles every night
so I can watch her hair
take to the air. It’s music
I can see when I
can’t see me
in the mirror.
Thanks to Pete Mladinic for the prompt, music in her hair.
published in Contemplate
Comments