When you speak, I hear all of my favourite albums for the first time –
My senses go crazy on the palette of my mind.
I close my eyes and fall into splashing bodies of colour dancing
to the song of your voice in my head.
Music had never tasted so great as the first night you kissed me.
Lying on the cold concrete under a blanket of eavesdropping stars,
We composed our love for the whole world to see.
God knows no piano or steel drum can move me like the beating of your heart under this thin cotton t-shirt.
My hand against your chest,
My body rocks with the pulse of two tiny synchronized red organs, and
My soul lifts with the crescendo riding in on the tip of your tongue.
I am carried away on the crest of the notes that follow as we paint our music into the night,
No greater collaboration before artist and musician.
Our love, streaked in vibrant waves across the land.
Had they been given the First Symphony Orchestra and every damn colour under the sun, they could not have surpassed.
When we made out, it was as if Woodstock and Bob Ross had survived,
Sitting in the great calm above us,
Dashing white highlights into the summer moon that shone on our bodies
While we moved with the excitement and passion of Hendrix’s hands across his strat.
We did with our bodies what he did with his guitar and Little Richard with his voice.
Oh, purple haze and happy trees.
Yes, our love was formed on the same stuff as legends like Van Gogh and John, Paul, Ringo, and George,
Your tragic passion of a starry night finally resolved by my theory that all you need is love –
A truth with which we re-painted the landscapes of our neighbourhood using the brushes of new discovery,
Strokes mirroring the note path of a fast-paced instrumental break even the gods of rock and roll, themselves, could not recreate.
My hands covered your heart in new hues that rocked your [colourblind] mind
While you threw new tracks down over a beat that had grown stale and boring in my own.
It’s been years since our last mix up or freestyle.
You’ve moved on to repaint the marred marks I left with strokes too harsh and hasty,
And I to correct the rhythm of your many incidental and dissonant note patterns, and
The facts are that Woodstock is a pile of ashes and happy trees do grow no more, but
I still can’t help but smile every time I listen to one of my favourite albums
And remember the sound of your voice and
how great music had tasted
The first night you kissed me.