For L.

I like to watch your
fingers trace the taut
stretch of your guitar’s strings
and listen as you pull and
press such lovely sounds,
each a caress I almost
feel hundreds of miles
too far away. Both pain
and pleasure, oh the way
my heart betrays me,
wanting you.
Who could have known
that yours would be
the hands I wish were
twined with mine,
softly teasing out the real
and ready beating of
our hearts. I try
but will I ever hear
again a song that
doesn’t spin
my soul aloft
in search of where
you sit and coax
as if from air
those chords and riffs,
each one a glimpse
into the very core of you.
I wonder then if
when you play, there’s
some small chance
you think this way
of me.