Eighteen Months in Mexico City

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your hands built towns that float upstream,
where yellow butterflies arrive like mail,
and your synaptic pathways fire in cascades—
long-term potentiation etched so deep
that every sentence branches new dendrites,
remembering what nobody witnessed yet.
You found the threshold where the real splits open.

[Chorus]
You taught me that the impossible has texture,
that ghosts can hold us, that time folds back on itself,
that your mirror neurons map the living and the dead
as equally real, equally breathing,
and I believe you, I believe you completely.

[Verse 2]
In your hippocampus, memory doesn't fade—
it consolidates, it thickens, it *becomes*.
Your cortical remapping made the everyday sing:
a woman ascending to heaven while folding laundry,
a plague of insomnia stealing names from the world,
your axonal branching reaching across oceans and decades
to touch what was only ever half-invented.
The propulsive rhythm of your theta waves
drumming out story after story,
each one textured with the exact weight of dream.

[Chorus]
You taught me that the impossible has texture,
that ghosts can hold us, that time folds back on itself,
that your mirror neurons map the living and the dead
as equally real, equally breathing,
and I believe you, I believe you completely.

[Bridge]
Your neurogenesis kept making new worlds
inside the old ones, rooms within rooms,
the predictive coding of your mind
predicting beauty before beauty knew itself—
solitude and love tangled so tight
we can't separate them anymore.

[Chorus]
You taught me that the impossible has texture,
that ghosts can hold us, that time folds back on itself,
that your mirror neurons map the living and the dead
as equally real, equally breathing,
and I believe you, I believe you completely.

[Outro]
So here's your town, still floating,
still full of those butterflies,
still waiting for you to walk its cobblestones,
and you do, you always do—
in every sentence we inherit from your hands.

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**WORD COUNT: 297 words** ✓