The circuits are twitching again. I can feel the currents jump through my veins and under my arteries, shove past my capillaries. It anchors around my knee caps, my thin shoulders, my breaking spine. “You know, it’s not a wish bone for a reason.” No, but it is mine.
The currents squirm between tissue, zap inside neurons. I get like this when I think about you. When the air buzzes with electricity and the earth below me fizzles. When I swear that, if I squint, I can see you standing in front of me, hands in pockets, eyes lowered in boyish meekness.
I don’t know if you know this, but I say I’m sorry every day. I think about your hands on your sleek violin, on smooth taut strings. I think about my violet fingertips and my chartreuse sins. I think of the way you always ask open-ended questions. The way you leave the music books open to a page you’ve been mulling over, the way treble clefs vibrate between your teeth and the way you find the opportunity to fling them back at me. “There is music in your voice.” No, but there is music in the way you breathe.
When I feel the electricity start up again, I am lost. The gadgets hum inside my chest and suddenly I’m breaking open. There are wires seeping out, ripping through my ribs. There is a pulse but it is electric. It is fragile. It is made up of programs and circuits; it is manufactured. I want to cradle it in my palms, whisper it back to sleep. I want to sing a lullaby to its bitterness and I want to demand for the whole world to rock it to sweet dreams. I want this electricity to hibernate inside me.
I shout for anyone, anything. But you sink deep and make sure that my voice fades into my naivety.
*Special thanks to Alicia, a true friend who is always there to give me inspiration.