If You Were a Guitar
If you were a guitar I would play you
till my fingers grew rough from your body’s
touch, till the moisture in the clouds withdrew
and only music rained on. But what breeze
could retain your voice? At night my hands would
dream new chords of light and air, of pearl and
flesh and warm breath suspended over wood.
And as we slept our bodies would demand
new vowels, and the space would diminish
till nothing lay between us but the blue
groaning above night’s whispers, a finish-
ing touch to this song. When I say love, you
hear morning break. When I say nothing, my
silence shouts your name. Each breath. Every sigh.
I first posted a draft of this on Valentine’s Day, 2014, but the first draft was completed some 14 years before that. I’ve admitted to being a slow writer…