Nobody is singing our song, and she falls asleep with her head on the radio. She hums to herself, out of tune, out of beat, but her hums say more than the voice from the speaker.
“I want you,” I say, like I've said before, but she's off in dreamland, laying in my bed with her arms around my radio. Happened again. The other guys say I should kick her away—if you're not in her pussy get her out of her head. But I can't disturb her dreaming when I'm dreaming too.
Though I'm on my chair, watching her chest rise and fall, and listening to some bullshit on the radio, I can feel the freckles of her skin, the flush of her cheeks. In my dreams she holds her hands to my chest, slides them through my skin like water, and uncoils the rope around my guts.
The noise on the radio goes from bad to worse. I wonder if I can lower the sound, but her arms are locked tight, her face glued to the speaker. If I wake her the dream will end. I’ll keep the pain so I can stay. She's my radio girl, yeah.