Magnetic

There was nothing strikingly special about her. Her hair a flat brown. Her clothes a dull gray. Her face a pale pink. No, there was nothing really striking about her. Except perhaps her headphones. They were pulsating, dated. The beat encased her attention. Her jaw locked tight in an everlasting hum, a concentration more intense than perhaps the magnesium oxide fireworks in her fingertips. She was sparkling, radiating, despite her dull swagger, she conducted energy and light. She was alive in her own chemical explosion. I followed the pop sizzle bang in her step down the hall, Beethoven or Bach? Perhaps indie rock of metal? Perhaps the soul in her ticking music box encased by her ribcage perhaps would simply erupt into a resilient beacon of song, of dance of life of gyrating hips and vibrating lips of eighth notes of quarter notes caressing her face, reaching her magnetic fingers out to envelop me attack me assault me consume me in harmony in melody allow me to flow into her private world and lay us down on the gentle buzz of her secret paradise.