I wrote a song for you. Heard the melody float through my mind after dusk as I eat frozen mangoes and triple knotted my shoes.

Southern rifts spoke with steel twang as I walked the passage between the kitchen and bedroom over and over.

It’s not a song that’ll be played. Other instruments I possess aren’t owned by hands with the experience to make them sing.

I’m trying to map the stars off the lake’s surface. Surface slick with light from a galaxy away. No prophecy found as I bubble awake.

Bless the last acre of berry stained grass. Copper taint of summer water I’d wager outlines of ecstasy for steady hands intertwined.

No lyrics to be sung aloud in this name or time.