A song strums through my open window playing with strings of my hair as I sleep; its hands are like yours. Its notes are shards of mirror that send sunlight burning holes in the drapes like a careless child. Its crescendo is ear-splitting, eye-opening and then all at once a whisper. It ebbs like a slow inhale and flows like a passing shadow pressed into the wall as this type is pressed into the page. I hold onto its lyric like a railing as I climb into my mind’s attic. I dig through all the dusty nostalgia for that persistent needle, the one that’s pricking me over and over, the one stuck scratching the vinyl with the song of you, you, you.