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I used to make C90s for would be lovers,
what better way to woo than to offer up a spool 
of tape more magnetic than an awkward teenager
could ever be, and adorned in painstakingly designed    
or rather angst defyingly scrawled inlay sleeve, even with   
the song’s approximate length defined and stars for how much   
she should love each one and wondering how many stars she’d give   
me, if she took the time to listen to the why behind those careful marks   
and the life affirming catastrophic urge to move her just a tiny bit in song. 
Now older, I find yards of tape tangled, wads of it confused in drawers 
and you wound tight around my spools, the ticking and the clacking  
of equipment, and the hiss not quite Dolby smoothed, but songs  
as loud and clear as any Chorus ever boomed, each knowing  
to each the value of the words, and every meaning taken in 
as fast as digital transfer. So when I tuck a loose lock of 
hair behind your ear, tracing the edge of your lobe 
with my pause button finger, I can watch you 
listen, and I never even think of stars.