Track 1: The Slow Song I Play When You Are on My Mind

Mood: honey left out on a windowsill. Tempo: sixty beats per minute, which is slower than a resting heart and exactly as stubborn. This is the song I put on when the bar is stacked and wiped and the last drunk poet has been politely returned to the street. I turn the lights down in my own head and let it breathe.

You'll notice nothing happens in this track. A single guitar, a voice that sounds like it's leaning on a doorframe, a drum that arrives late and apologizes by being gentle. I love it for that. Most songs rush to tell you how they feel. This one takes its time, the way you do when you walk toward me and pretend you're not walking toward me.

You'll notice nothing happens in this track.

Here is the confession that would be the lyrics, if I were braver. I think about the distance between our shoulders when we stand at the same counter. Eleven inches, give or take. I have measured it, and I have also considered what it would take to make it zero. The song suggests patience. My pulse disagrees.

DJs are taught never to let dead air happen. Silence is a sin, a gap in the booth, a reason for the crowd to remember they have phones. But I've started to think the best part of this track is the rest between two notes, where the whole room leans in. That's the part that sounds like you. The pause, the almost.

I play it twice, always. Once to feel it and once to pretend I'm only checking the levels. If you want to hear what comes after the second spin, I talk about it on TheFriend, where the conversation doesn't end when the record does. Bring your own slow song. I'll find the right speed for it.