sext: it is a sweltering august night and we are caught up in the music of our own naked bodies. it is not 1969 but i feel woodstock in my bones.

sext: finger me like i am the strings of your favorite guitar, until my vertebrae vibrate with the melodies hidden in between the spaces of my spinal cord.

sext: the needle touches vinyl and i can’t get my hands off of you.

sext: our breaths quicken into quarter notes, eighth notes, sixteenth notes. we crescendo to a chorus of carbon dioxide and then begin again, panting.

sext: i’m stevie nicks and you’re tom petty. remind me that there is still a way to translate love into music. remind me that a heartbeat can be shared territory.

sext: even my name sounds like music when wound around your tongue.

sext: save your forevers for a stadium packed with screaming lights. i just want your now, amplified loud enough to shatter my stereophonic rib cage.

sext: come closer, i want to map out your body on a mix tape and press replay so many times that you can hear the smudged fingertip traces.

sext: whoever they are, wherever they are, they are singing about us.

sext: they will always be singing about us.