The minstrel looks at me

From under the brim of his hat

As he strums his guitar

With sensitive fingertips

I see an errant curl on his forehead

Reach up to touch it as I whisper

Into the curve of his ear

He smiles at me slyly

His lips a promise of something

I instinctively want to lean closer

But the room is full of others

And I think him a bit shy

He sings his song slowly

His mouth like a caress on the mike

And I close my eyes

Perhaps I will someday be the instrument

The one he strokes to emit ballads

My moans music to his artistic appreciation

The curve of my cheek

But a note waiting to be transposed

My shudders eliciting a refrain

For a new melody

All the while sitting in this crowded room


And just for now I listen

And he sings



If I were to form your betrayal

Into something palpable

It should be black

Oozing pus and ugly

Attempting to speak but unable

Because of its disfigured mouth

I could glare at it and feel anger

Maybe step on it with the heel of my boot

Laughing in contentment

At the howl of pain

Instead there is nothing

Just this feeling of sorrow

And these memories of you

Things I would love to

Glare at or hurt

I can do nothing but feel

Try to forget

You, your lies, and my silly,


Belief in love