Quanta Bachata

We are shy ghosts made of “perhaps,” 

floating in the attic of a Great Unseen. 

A shiver of silver, a static-hum,

 Existing only in the margins where the eye forgets to look. 

We are waves of mist, 

Waiting for a reason to become solid.

Then—The Snap.

A resin-sticky bow bites the air. 

The singer swallows the wind and exhales a star. 

The guitar’s wooden belly drums a secret code: One-two-three-click.

 Time, that old clockmaker, finally loses his rhythm 

To the heartbeat of the Bachata.

The Great Folding

Suddenly, the room collapses like a paper fan. 

The “Maybe” dies so the “Is” can breathe.

 Chest to chest, we are no longer riddles without answers; 

We are the answer itself. 

It isn’t a courtship—it is a rescue. 

A gravity-lock against the cold, yawning gaps between the planets.

Sentimiento: A spoonful of honey stirred into a cup of tears.

The musicians are bridge-builders, Laying planks of sound across the silence. 

They offer us their lungs, their calloused fingertips, Just to see us catch fire for a second. 

The long, dusty roads of our lives? They were only ever dark hallways leading to this specific lamp.

The Resolution

We do not inhabit the years; we inhabit the Sparks.

 We live in the moment the wave shatters into a grain of sand, In the thrum that vibrates the bone behind the heart. 

The band has built a cathedral out of echoes, A religion where the only commandment is: “Listen.”

We are no longer static.

 We are no longer lonely atoms bumping in the night.

 We have become Entangled.

 A single, shimmering chord struck in the dark, Vibrating at the frequency of Found.

And when the silence returns to reclaim its throne, 

We will keep this thimble of light:

 The proof that for one strange, beautiful heartbeat, 

        We were real.