Strings and Pen

I crave your poetry,
the words trapped
behind your eyes.
Your fingertips
bleed music
while mine
drip poetry,
and we are separate,
broken illusions
of those people
who danced
to steel drums
and drank cold beer
under hot ocean sunshine.
Bring me your broken,
your abused
and tortured.
Bring me your pieces
and I will be
the apothecary,
the medicine man
who eases the agony
baked into their bones.
My cure doesn’t reach
you or me.
No salve can respite
our despair.
Your music aches
with wanting
and my words
are wired
with slivers
of your touch
but we cannot
heal one another.
We are inherently
you with your strings
and me with my pen.


8 thoughts on “Strings and Pen

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