We are words. May we kiss your clean brow where black hair parts in its sleek cascade? You sing. You are a soulful singer, using your words to caress and carry. But who sings you?
As you stand in queue for your coffee, sweatshirt lounging loose, body relaxed, can we sing your black hair, the deepest night sun-infused, the slope of your gentle nose, those soft eyelids, wide beds drawn for dark-iris thought?
Will the consonants of our vision hold you, keep the room from liquefying at your departure? Today your practical howdy and farewell are skylark sung, skimming east over black river shine. In your voice, our vowels rush to rescue themselves from melting drizzle.
On stage, we name you in marquee lights; each bulb sizzles to speak its letter.You curl over your guitar and let vibrating strings release your ardor. A critic will use words to describe the performance. Our words become yours: smokin’ affliction corner change.
You see life’s struggles, but you smile. On stage and off, your laughing smile carries, fringed neatly, to carry the black-shine descent, your hair a starling’s shine on your shoulders. Do we write cotton-polyester at the touch of your shirt, or raw white buffer, as you roll the sleeve up polished skin, unveiling colorful ink, a picture of your passion. Sometimes words aren’t needed.
Available Tuesday, May 5th