You're only a vibration

pressed to scrap metal,
burned to a disk.

I can hold your voice with one hand;
I can hold your melodies with my ears.
I can hold you in my heart,
fool my body into your presence.

For epithelial tissue
is not so clever,
it cannot tell the difference between a dream and reality,
love and necessity.

Sound travels 768 miles per hour, a pace my heart races,
but I'll die before I win that game.