Places

I want to hold you in my arms, and yet

you are in Seattle

Playing your guitar late

into the night

gesturing with wide hands

and big teeth,

“It’s time to make it big!”

How I loathe your music.

When we ran around the golf course

Years ago

high on coffee and marijuana

We would laugh about our newfound music,

You on the guitar,

Me the lyricist and singer- 

a “Frenchie” vibrato.

It didn’t matter then,

That music was your sky,

It was your painted mountain in the distant,

Something to climb

and to conquer.

You’d tell me,

“We have big skies Lara,

We are meant for greatness”

And I agreed, without hesitation.

And now,

On my porch alone,

I crave a simpler life.

To love you inside my sheets,

 and over a cup of coffee in the morning.

To talk about art, and food,

and who is making it big now…

 Is it talent

Or the machine of man, pumping out

“The new voice," or the

“incredible actor?"

Instead you reach for your guitar

Move your hands up

and down the fret board,

That long, thin neck...