Crash your thoughts into mine
Collapse into my conscience
Become my aches, the thing that wakes me
The thing that takes my sleep
The overture playing to my dreams
Four hands on one piano
Eighty eighty keys in a summer breeze
Be the varnish, be the chipped paint
Be the Saint with the perfect pitch
Become the itch in my fingers
Become the scent that lingers in memory
Complicate the simplest of melody
Play me your music
Combine minor keys that freeze the blood
Please be the ship washed ashore in the flood
Be the hairs standing still
Be the spine in my chill
Be that quivering quaver as it spills from the quill.



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