Time plays its accordion. Observe its swift keys of bright and dark.

I have to tell you in these recent years I have been labeled: driftwood, spindrift, shrapnel of glass, an ash city after fires. All of which are perhaps apt given every song I had begun to sing became a dirge.

Now when you call me dulcet, I ask, how will you know whose music you are hearing, unless you touch a spine: mine or time's accordion's?

You are who you are, labels are what others brand you to be by their own projections and own need to identify. Does not my limited perception of you reflect the real you, for me?

I don't care what imprints you have left on time's accordion. You exist for me as I know you in this moment of time, a dulcet key in my spine.