The sun rises
with the opening of
your eyes
and sets
to the sound of your fingers
falling upon Fender frets.
My days are spent within the hollow
spaces of your humble hallucinations.
Fantasies filled with laughter
and a lethal lust for
vinyl record collections.
I picture your black Vans
striking the pavement
of Main Street,
hair hiding your headphones
as if it was against the law to show
the curves of your ears.
Our favorite store,
located nearly three miles
from home,
but you made the six-mile round trip
because you knew how much
I adored my tattooed Travis Barker.
You taught me how to play guitar
and guided me towards pop punk riffs
that destroyed
the feeling my fingertips once held.
You took my soul
and buried it inside a band
668 miles away, in the heart of
Franklin, Tennessee.

My favorite lyrics spill like lava
out of the volcano you call your lips,
and I dare not kiss them
because although your tone is off key
and your voice is cracking,
I would rather see you happy
than to waste time “lip smacking.”
You sing for me
a sweet lullaby
when all I was taught
was crying into slumber
and tallying tragic sheep.
We took a rustic road trip
with a few flannel-wearing friends.
I learned that day that perhaps
indie music holds a somnolent effect
beside you.
I learned that these memories
hold nocturnal-inducing levels of
nostalgia.
They keep my mind alert
with reminders that
no dream or fantasy
could ever recreate the
harmony of your voice
through the thick
summer breeze of adolescence.

“I love you”