The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide

He Strums Guitars Over My Head

He strums guitars over my head
While my cheeks are flushed pink
Like the sheets on my bed
Stolen glances will never come back
The pulse of my body
Screams loudly, “Heart attack!”
Oh, how the pillow hits my skull
Not the other way around
Pain from his voice is dull
No stars, solely strings to be heard
All twanged by his fingers
Fit perfect with his word
Electronic voice waves float below
A speaker pumping love
From this boy, a hello
Copyright © | Year Posted 2005

Poem

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The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace