I gawk
at the way your calloused hands
can graze my skin
scraping apart
what little sanity
I've got left--
pieces
of fabric-
               ated thoughts
and memories
litter our feet like fallen
leaves in Autumn.

I laugh
at the way
you rock cliches silently
into omission,
cleaning the rest of the world
of originality
and three word stories
that play like music boxes
sprinkling magic
into my ears
like I was a child again.

I even dance
in rooms with that creaking wood
sound
we love,
easing into step
with our momentum
on heavy nights
of weary thoughts
that rattled our minds
tired,
breathing heavily and easily
all throughout
our little
drumming
and howls,
making songs from free
style instruments.

I think of how
I still hum myself to sleep
with our tempo
long after the music box
has stopped playing.