To you with the heart-shaped freckles,

You taught me that sharing music with someone
is inviting them to listen to pieces of you,
spent years teaching me which songs were celebrations, warnings.
In the same way that you can stop in the middle of a story
and swear you smell somewhere you’d been months before,
every song sounds a particular moment.

To you who never meant to collide into me,

With you, I learned the harmful power of a well-crafted playlist.
You mindlessly burrowed into my positioned arms
while I charmed you with bands you’d never heard of, played
guitar in your bedroom, whispered all the right lyrics into your hair.
After six months, I had made you fifty CDs, each one full of emptiness.
You loved them, but I didn’t love you.

To you with the smile I longed to crawl inside of,

When you handed me a four-disc guide into the audio root
of your dyed hair, lens-less glasses, bumblebee tattoo
and impeccable ability to bake a cobbler, I almost told you
that I’d spend the summer falling in love with you.
But because you aren’t supposed to love your high school best friend,
I stamped my favorite lyrics into my bike wheels and pedaled
up and down your street, hoping you’d notice. Each time
I listen, I love the 86 minutes of being the person you were thinking of.

To you, still screaming between my ears,

You taught me to read track-names like tealeaves.
The first mix you made me had three songs with “love” in the title,
and five more that featured it as a main theme.
I couldn’t not smile while listening.
It didn’t matter when you stopped saying it,
because I could still press loop on my stereo
and flood my apartment with your stale, thirteen-month old pulse.
The last disc you gave me began with a break-up song.
You covered your tracks with a haphazardly written note:
Don’t read into this, it doesn’t mean anything.