We sing. Usually IÕm too scared to sing in front of people like this, loud, alone. But sheÕs different.

She looks pretty these days. And I tell her. Her dreads. Braces gone. Somehow the bones in her face are stronger. Her eyes shine more now. Her clothes fit her too. SheÕs flawed-ly earth gorgeous.

I love making music with her. She plays the acoustic guitar better than I do. Our voices. IÕm better at harmonizing than she is. But we both play around a lot with the familiar tunes as we sing. Sometimes we sound over-harmonized and slightly off key but sometimes our voices stream out and mingle, so they spread out perfectly and pretty quirky beautiful. I say that harmonizing perfectly is like your voice having an orgasm and she laughs. We eat macaroni and cheese. Chocolate cookies. Fiddle with the piano. The guitar. Her dreads.

Our dogs lie on the floor downstairs. Strawberry blond and chocolate, theyÕre pretty. She sucks on her floppy ear.

I love doing this. ItÕs comfy rainy perfect. And weÕre creating something that wasnÕt there before. ItÕs incredible and I could do it forever.

The clock tells us itÕs been way longer than it felt. I bundle up and head home in the rain. Strawberry blond clip-trailing behind me through the puddles. If I had a million years IÕd still have three million years worth of things to do. IÕd learn every instrument. Sing every song. Write the ones that havenÕt been revealed yet. Make hundreds of pairs of wings out of gauze and wire and fake flowers. Sew bright-colored dresses with lace. Watch every movie. Write my life down and everyone elseÕs in forgotten languages.

ItÕs so easy to sit like this. ItÕs so easy to pass the time. But itÕs easier to let time pas me, and forget.

I love singing partly because I am very familiar with my body. It does what I want it to do. More than any instrument does. It listens more. Understands me. Has been through my demons, my angels. Mutual love, what we can create. Beauty out of what was only unused space.