my lover is a tape recorder.
i listen to her all day long,
recording her words,
pressing her buttons.
although it is up to me
to press play, it is she
who keeps track of things.
she remembers everything.
we tape our chronicles
late into the evening,
dubbing each other's words,
rewriting the soundtrack,
rendering the voices in
the background of our lives.
a chronic addiction,
a delicious affliction.
sometimes we fast forward,
speaking in shrill voices.
we chirp and twitter and
cock our heads to the side
as we regard our future.
we bristle the feathers
of our fortune against
the squeaky chatter of time.
now and then we rewind
ourselves and see everything
backwards. we take a step back
to remember just how far
we've come. after reviewing
the record of our affair,
we pause for a moment,
but we never really stop.
i get myself so wound up
in this magnetic tape.
sometimes when i hit play
i fear she'll finally snap.
but she is made of more
than just plastic.
she is more loyal to truth
than any machine i know.
on despondent nights of self
i make her play melancholly
cassettes, to test her
durability. but she ejects them.
or sometimes she'll eat them up
and i'll have to yank out
the reeling casualties with their
chewed up ribbon trailing behind.
i insert a blank cassette
and we start over again.
we have hundreds of tapes
that we never record over.
we have books on tape and
spoken word pieces. we love
listening to and writing mysteries
and other philosophical dialogues.
she is my recorder,
my counterpart, counterperson
behind this messy desk.
she counters my thoughts,
yet concurs my feelings.
rewinding my head and
fast forwarding my heart,
she transcribes my destiny.
