When the girl sings, I see

the strings in her voice

the velvety tendrils,

winding and fluttering

the spaces between us

trembling with crimsons

shuddering with saffrons

blazing with the teal of Sunday

church bells

I never doubt the clarity

of her melodies, when the webs

of mellifluous reds bleed out

and she inhales every

droplet of the lilting blues

the thrum of her hums –

like the sound of gin and tonic

in the late afternoon

when the sky is a quiet amber

She likes to know what colors

she sings in, where her notes spin

and tumble before me

the shapes and shades of her

melismas, the flashes

of the breaths she takes

I know there’s always a cure,

But I would rather there’s music

in my eyes