Music Box

When you wind me round and round,
you always sing along -
holding me in hands wrinkled
and quivering like whispers.

When you sing, I look up -
at your lips that open and close (just like your hands),
shaping and reshaping our melody
along with my rusted tinkle (your voice
always outshines mine).

Sometimes, your singing falters: to tumble
as speech and silence,
to sway just out of tune like secrets I'll never understand.

But I guess, don't tell me your secrets -
for all I really know is the one song
I made with you in sound to fade.