Warm Chords

I never hear a guitar
without thinking of you.
The music takes me
to those hot days
in early summer
when you played
for me
in the back room
of your parents’ house.

I am trapped
watching your fingers move,
your deftness a surprise
and the melody
washing me in warmth
different than the sun,
different than bath water,
different than winter jackets.
It was heat
from your love
of play,
your love
for me.
You poured your fire
across my skin
and I never looked back
until looking back
was all I did.

Plummeting,
careening
into abyss-like absence,
I felt you pull,
the chords crying out
against the breaking,
yet you watched them snap,
watched me snap,
s h a t t e r,
and you turned away,
forgetting the music,
pretending I vanished
instead of your chosen abandon.

Now I listen to the guitar
and wish it was you I heard.
Now I write
to feel the warmth
I lost when I lost you.

~Patience

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