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


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