Burst

This is not my love song.
Your voice is aching through the afternoon,
throbbing against the diffident sidewalk traffic:

- they pause – they pause – they cannot pause longer.

I feel something like benevolence
hitting you.

The corners of my
cheeks raising – muscles tensed
with pleasure.

Your fingers are not dancers.
They are fingers, calloused against the strings,
striking strings

just strings
and I am burst.

~ by blackhats on June 27, 2009.