The Symphony

With the light of my lamp, I wrote. The words amassed themselves in my belly until I felt like a star: hot enough for alchemy. My toes tingled. My lamp light, an incandescent gold, fluctuated in tiny rhythmic jitters to the beat of my heart. 

Music played behind my pen.  

I had a golden friend to harmonize with my golden belly.
And together, we spun.
forward and hot and golden.

But it was I who wrote, 
it was I who scarred the page with my words.
The music was mere background noise, 
the golden underpinnings of a perfect world
that the dingy felt tip of my pen tore and punctured without precision. 

Hot enough for alchemy, 
we made something that was neither whole nor broken.
We danced bachallian 
to the steady measured beat.