I opened my mouth and pulled out a scrap of paper. On it were words warning She Who Loves Roses not to cry about thorns, but Sappho didn't actually say that and it's not like you to be sloppy. You are precise, like a collarbone. Or a blade.

(Touching either one of them means a bloody finger. Maybe that's what you meant to tell me when you lowered this scroll down my throat.)

The room is bright and filled with pianos. They are very close together. Suggestions of walls recede in proportion to my distance from them, which adds to the difficulty of navigating the sea of wood and ivory.

but my heart knows the walls and thinks my eyes are foolish anyhow
and the Brain, it writes off as impractical