Their poetry imperceptibly
slipped
into the first person.

Neither of them noticed
when
'he and she'
became
'you and me'

Let's analyse that, shall we?

'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
                now?
Syncopation.
My  
      beat
against your
                beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
            syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
                                             unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
                                              chattering.
1,
     2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
        don't
don't.

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
                                               wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'

My journey to purification began on a night where I pretended like you didn't exist.
I denounced myself a pagan of memories,
turned your forgotten words into forbidden hymns,
embraced them in my mouth before I climbed into bed,
and used them to sing myself to sleep
in all of the hours before I did not dream of you.
It was like burning a house with memories in it,
because you need the ashes to reconstruct a new one.
It was like holding your breath even when you're not in water,
because you have experienced drowning and do not want to risk it again.
I kept on telling myself that this was peace- leaving you was not enough so I had to leave myself as well.
Here is a version of me not at war with you- here is a version that is telling itself nothing has changed even though it is barely existing.
Here is a version moving violently around with nothing to restrict it- here is a version dancing whimsically alone.
Here is a version so small it cannot be stampeded on- here is a version so small it cannot hear its own heartbeat.
Here I am trying to struggle free of you,
Fighting myself so that you don't have a chance to.
But as the days go by,
I am hoping only my cocoon loved you.
And the self- inflicted scars will one day stop belonging to me
And,
belong to some other shell,
restricting the body of,
some other boy.

It is a trial to be free when you are an addict of the prison that held you.
I've been teaching myself about how wrong I am-
That I was not born to make a home out of love,
I am too poignant and sensitive
And cannot belong to anything.
Though the chains may be comfortable,
I need to sacrifice ecstasy so I can find a new lifestyle that is not inspired by their heaviness.
I need to find real fulfillment before it's too late.
Before the chains leave me instead of me leaving them-
Before I'm forced to gallop into any new home I see because I was never prepared enough to be able to stand alone.
I want to forget the way I lived for you,
I want to burn everything without feeling the need to say sorry.
Why must I wait for your forgiveness when everytime I find the urge to reconcile myself,
I'm forced to choke out apologies before I even act on anything.
Why must I lie awake unsure of the future,
Seeing things smaller than you trying to fill a void they won't fit in,
Holding me down so that I cannot be bigger than them.
I know now that I am susceptible to allurement as intensely as a mirror susceptible to light,
Because I am now a reflection of a love I barely experienced.
I stay awake in my sheets every night - praying for my own forgiveness,
Even when I have the ability,
To turn things that don't even hurt me into punishments.

I'm fine, I say
My fingers crossed

No, really, I'll be
Okay
Truth is for weaklings, right?

Oh that scratch? I'm
Klutzy is all
A little lie is all
Y**eah, okay, maybe I'm not fine