Stacks of records filled my bookcases like extinct animals just looking for a home
And you told me to burn them,
so the music could float up into the trees and teach the leaves to dance
to Talking Heads and Tchaikovsky.
But as the records burned,
the smoke filled my lungs and smothered the leaves,
and I realized that even the best poetry will leave you empty,
wondering when words stopped being the truth.