That Song Burns
Music notes etched into my skin… played with strings and things, the melody never ends (Photo by Emma Simmons).
Winter is hot this year,
And I don’t mean the weather
My skin burns around the notes etched
Into my skin, sketched
Under the sleeve of my coat
Or is it a jacket? Shacket?
Whatever…
It’s there.
The song composed to be played
With piano keys or sweater strings
Harmonicas or bells that ring
Whatever fits the moment or mood
The song of this year, I suppose
A reprise or repose–a rest
A test? Surely not, I wrote the thing
Or I should have
Whatever…
It’s there.
The song is long, or short
If done right with the pauses and breaths
Or played with the voice
That spoke them in the first place
Me? Write it? That’s absurd.
Where would you–oh, did I say that?
It was a lie (I hope)
It burns my skin
Whatever…
It’s there.
It sounds like cats or fire
Or maybe a choir
Screeching across the fiberglass in my lungs
Or holiday songs on a vinyl
Crunching between my teeth with a snap
Yes, winter is hot this year
Because my–the song
The song, etched with sunshine and ant piles
Plays hot and strong
Burning my skin
Whatever…
It’s still there.
Hey, guys! My name is Emma Simmons, and I am Sarah’s other half and Co-Editor. This is my fourth and final year of journalism, so everyone is in for...
