and when you think about it,
some of the sounds are slightly
(just slightly, like a whisper)
And beautiful, beautiful to fit the women
to fit the decay and the chaos.
The love is in the notes he’s written.
A perfected art of Emotion;
and what am I, if not
the weep of the guitar,
The man whose fingers
pricked the flow of Life,
wrapped themselves in a fist around
what soul is left in me.
The man leaves his cable plugged
into a tree in the woods somewhere.
He is one of few who knows
how to bend the string to make it
One forgets what beauty belongs to in his presence.
One finds themself
pinned to a thorn.
One forgets what it was like to walk before being Reborn.
He is lovely. Lovely,
the kind you lose your consciousness in.
Vibrato used to make you Be,
the low, low trill of the man’s voice.
You forget to love him because you don’t have a choice.