music is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. she sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her voice hiding in the volume. music is a safe place, and it is her favorite. she would rather you write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. these words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.

please
i need someone
to write love on my arms