Ableton

I want it textured

like youth,

green and blue and

inconsequential.

Sequential grids lining

empty scrolls,

no governance.

We deserve it.

File. New.

Save. Repeat.

Cheap microphones through

tattered cables,

but your voice

is still amplified.

Turn it up,

this one goes to 11.

I want to hear

the sandpaper,

so granular

that every sentence

bleeds

to sawdust.

Lovers don’t need words,

only feeling.

Even though my hearing

is 80 years older

than the rest of my senses,

your words

are lossless treasure maps,

unfolding

with every satanic syllable.

X marks the spot.

Teed up and

queued down

aisles of I's and you's,

never asking why,

but who?

And if the answer is me,

then I will be your hue.