Guitarists' Language
I tell you my secrets through the hums
Of buzzing, stringed bees
The rumblings of my thumb
I pretend to play it all with ease
My memories seem to wane
But my fingers know their place
A screech, a murmur, a twang
Suffocating, sweet, in our airy space
What words I cannot find,
What I cannot seem to say,
Are the things I hope remind
Us of the songs that make us sway
Mahogany and copper speak
In softer languages than I ever could
So I’ll strum until my wrist is weak
Until we’ve both been understood
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