Katrina Kaye

You prefer to listen to my soundtrack:

my sigh at your touch,
the chords of gasp curse moan prayer,
the rhythm of my laughter.

The pulse of your lips on bare shoulder
sends a harmony throughout my body.

I continue to interlace my notes with yours,
eager to wrap my coda around you,
hold you tight inside this melody of morning.

I purr for you,
a vibration between skin and bone.
The treble of your embrace hums
inside the length of my octave.

It’s a tempo in my shoulder blades,
the meter in a Monday morning
and a half night’s sleep,
residing in the throat of me.

I hold my song still,
take my heart off my tongue
and put it in the drawer by my bed.

The cadence of our time together
is still rattling against exposed skin,
though your lips sing static.

You embedded a beat inside me
and left your refrain to reverberate
between spine and sternum,
long after the music died.

“Soundtrack” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories like that Anymore (2011).