Pale hands caress the white guitar
a sadness gathered in
pouring through the strings
yet almost silent.
Trying not to wake them
she plays love songs in the grey Chicago morning;
her tears touch gentle discords
on the heartstrings.
And I for just a moment
wish to lie beneath her fingers
as her lips form quiet whispers
red-gold hair a blessed curtain
over curves outlined in blue
bringing back a night remembered
breasts glowing in the flashing
of a sudden lightning spear.
But if I step towards her
I’ll be entangled with the others
in a web of red-gold heartstrings
captured, sleeping in her sight.
Leave her to her singing
hear her breath upon the morning
leave her tears so silent falling
M. A. Mohanraj
June 30, 1993