I want to disappear into every song that knows

me. Sometimes, I sing with my arms around 
the voice that hurls me and listen to the gap

between my laughter and the night. A voice
said I love you and the voice is a hand I may

never hold. A song said come in, I did and sat 
in couplets full of throes. Every love I knew

turned grey: my mother’s lost love, my aunties’ 
tough love, my lover’s wrong choice—love is

air and dear at the same time—love is the mirror 
that tells me how much of them I wear on my face—

love is a nomad so I cover the tracks of my grief
with music and wear my face upright, love upright

that even in my grief I can feel my arms around a song. 
Yesterday, I called my lover on the phone and asked

her how I can love with so much grief in the air. 
Every night, I wait for her voice to unfurl me. Every

time a song drops inside my ear, my heart breaks, 
speaks volume, hears volume, holds volume, I mix

music with night-walks to drive my fears out.