Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Nonexistent sonatas,
    Surfing the warm air,
    Fading in, fading out,
    Taking him away, enchanting his soul.

    His head rocks side to side,
    His fingers twitch and intertwine,
    Beethoven softens and I listen to his breaths,
    These paced subtle exhales escaping from his chest.

    I touch my fingers to his chin
    Imply, "You want to dance."
    I lift his eyes to my grin
    And whisper, "Liberate yourself."

    His skin becomes cold, blue, lifeless.
    My smile abates, the sonata dies, and confusion plays;
    Fear fills my heart, as the skies go black,
    At the words he may say.

    An exhale.

    "I can't move the muscles and bones in those wicked ways as you do," he intrudes.
    "I. Can't. Keep. A. Beat."
    At this that fear in my heart melts to compassion,
    Taking me over from my head to my feet.

    I touch my fingers to his chin once again.
    I say, "Well baby, you must have forgot:
    How can you not feel the rhythms of ancient djembes rushing through your veins?
    Untie your feet, never think, and release your pains."

    A step back, a retreat;
    Yet In this warm solace our eyes meet.
    The shy note of a violin begins,
    Followed by the burst of a sonata.

    It surfs the warm air,
    Fading in, fading out,
    Taking him away, enchanting his soul,
    And to its beat his body moves about.

    There he is, I think, there's my king.
    He's finally dancing, at last he is free.
    In this music our two bodies connect,
    Not with touch, but through life.

    Emancipation is possible,
    The revolution can not be missed,
    The boy: Yes, he was magic,
    But this man is sun-kissed.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.