Play Me

You make us coffee and we lay in bed

while you try to play me

Perfect on your backpacker’s guitar.

You say you’ve never been good with rhythms.

You say you need a bigger guitar.

I almost have it, you say,

I’m sorry.

All I can do is look at your hands,

strumming the strings,

slapping out a rhythm.

Disjointed, uncertain,

Perfect.

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