Etta James, you come to me as a dream.
You more than have a hold on me, you recite my thoughts before they've even made it to the page.
Otis Redding, you haunt my reverie.
I think of you as cool water running over my sunburnt skin, forming perfect little orbs along my forearms.
Odetta, you are Appalachia and I, your weary son.
In thinking of you I smell fields of tobacco and bourbon stills, my periphery vision holds tinctures on wooden shelves.
David Bowie, you reside in my loins.
Every time I lick my lips I think of you, and remember the difference between sensual and sexual.
Tom Waits, you slick bastard.
If I am doomed to never find love it is because you set the bar just too far out of reach.
Amen.
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