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But there is also the possibility of love at first sound.
The crest and ebb of language has within its flow the mysteries of orgasm and the music of notes struck and resonating through the bodies of those who listen as they type, the plectrum of affinities, the spectrum of spoken beauty. The day I walked to the piano as a baby and began to poke out tunes I heard in my wee head, I was awake to the possibility of love, and named my kitten after a friend of my sister's who'd watched me that first time, and whose green eyes called me heavenward whenever I found melody's thread impaled on the rhythm of my own stopped breath.
It can be that way for people who find mutual veins of grace, even here, in places like this.
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