Most often, I am searching for a specific

Sort of white noise—nothing too eager to be heard.

A string of notes, carefully placed

Side by side so as not to disrupt

The last bit of focus that has been scraped

Off the farthest corner of my brain.

Lyrics delicately crafted in such a manner

That does not detract from the task placed in my hands.

I crave music that reaches out gently and

Causes a sense of internal warming,

A thawing of the chains I have shackled

Around my stomach and my chest and my pelvis.

I can stretch, I can breathe, I can run.

Songs that I hear but don’t need to listen to

To know the story they are trying to tell.

How beautiful it must feel to be a song:

To be created with intense purpose and meaning,

Desperately needed in moments of pure happiness

And in moments of unfathomable pain.

A poet said he had forgotten to pay attention

To a song he listened to for the first time,

But I choose to place my attention elsewhere.

I would rather let music flow through the air,

Undisturbed by the human ear.