June

She sang to me that night.

From across the room I could feel the glow of her body heat as I sat on the edge of a mattress knocked askew of its frame by desperate and urgent love. Startled, I turned to look at her, under the influence of an irresistible force governed by some unknown law of physics. It would be stupid of me to say that I chose to look at her; as she began to sing, a singularity winked into existence at that end of the room and mercilessly sucked my gaze into it.

She sang without apparent pattern or acknowledgement of my attention. She sang without reserve or modesty. She was singing to me but all the universe was listening.

She sang the grace of raindrops, the sorrow of stones, the inescapable motion of time;
She sang the joy of motherhood, the cold black loneliness at the depths of the ocean, and of the fatal threat of apathy;
She sang of motes and galaxies, equally beautiful and meaningless.

She sang to me that night.