You sit there on the edge of your bed and shake nervously due to the unfamiliarity of an audience; and I am your first. I sit cross legged beside you, just out of reach, in a room illuminated by daylight shining through windowpanes. You’re so focused that our eyes never meet, as your neck cranes over an acoustic guitar. The curtains billow in the wind, and your voice, alluring, fills the air crowded with warm breath and desire. You miss a cord, pausing to pick it up again with less faith. I hold back as I listen, because I want to listen, but my impatient hand strums against your notes, craving your skin. Your words are felt, thought, written, and spoken so that only I can understand the harmonies which intertwine in this small space. As time goes on the melodies drain from your heart, bleeding beautiful words, as my own heart begins to beat with pain. You write pretty words for such a precious soul, yet you innocence played on fragile strings. Soon pretty words conned blissful beats as the song faded and broke. Your words got lost when your heart lost the beat and, frustrated, you quit.
