The stage light dims,
forms premature creases in your face,
and you sweetly finger your guitar.

I drink my vodka tonic,
imagine it’s me, my face
the mike your hand
softly touches. Guitar my body
with you striking my chords.

Behind your closed eyes, I want
to know all the thoughts that run
through. I want to reach out,
smooth that lock of hair
off your forehead.

Notes spill onto the floor,
wooden boards under your feet
soaked with spilt whiskey,
littered with plastic cups.
Your sharpie marker spent next
to your sketchbook in the corner,
waiting for words
to spill from your fingers

Later my phone number
etched on the cover.