Skips

Skips etched in a disc,
Etched in my heart after years of
Being subjected to the harsh dissonance
That somehow makes the music that much sweeter.

Springing up and down on my bed,
Hands gracelessly slapping the ceiling
As if my young hands could smash through and reach the sky;
Shouting at the top of my lungs,
Clear skies in my eyes
And ears assaulted with melodies, skips and all.

Flying down the highway at two AM
Eyes clenched together for a split second
And open to mirror a chaotic jumble of stars,
Scattered and ephemeral and beautiful;
Shouting at the top of my lungs,
And the same melodies are carried through my ears,
Though they lack the same skips
That are now etched into my heart.