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I dwell in a body, in a soul, in which music is revered. Lyrics and chords bounce through my mind, waking my memories here and there, taking them down from a shelf and twirling around with them in my closed palm.
In the car, he asks me to play his favorite Beatles' song, Nowhere Man. He closes his eyes; the wind rushing through the car windows makes his bangs dance over his crescent-shaped brows. Now, he says, play Regina Spektor. Play Coldplay.
The eyes close again. They close because he also understands and possesses this same reverence.
I watch him hear, for the first time, all this glorious music that has shaped me, healed the bruised portions of my heart, electrified my thighs, prodded my mind long after the last note hung in the air. And I know how exciting this is for him, how life-affirming.
And I get to be right there with him, to quietly observe, to watch as he's moved, to be by his side for his dance.