i stretch it too far, i think. i make 1 & 3 or 2 & 4 feel like rest after paradiddles with one stick and one hollow chunk of metal. it feels like tap dancing. but my favourite part of those lights and this band and that stage is standing beside you.
curled over your mandolin with fingers and fretless fortune, my percussive metal clang cutting through the guitar riffs with a metronomic whisk and stir, we laugh a lot because the frontman and his fiddler keep the magic of our you and me row concealed enough to feel like backstage.
i pretend to duel your underrated string stroking with jovial tambourine-to-foot action, but the laughing between us keeps me farther from the pull of the twelve bars that we'll both go home to.
slap stick percussion is the kind of pun i save for you, with eyes and earnest grin that begs your study. i don't know if last night was the last show, because you're leaving on canada day. but you gave me a lozenge like a parting gift. i shouldn't have had that beer because my throat was already swollen.
i guess i'm afraid of mornings like today, cooing at monarchs over breakfast with you. because once you say it, it can fly away. and i won't get to write the magic anymore. and i miss the magic when it flies away.
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