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...
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-Lara