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 down. 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

completion, and the space would diminish
till nothing lay between us but the sly
notes singing through our veins, replenish-
ing each other’s thirst. When I say hope, I

mean you. When I whisper nothing, my
silence shouts your name. Each breath. Every sigh.