his fingers strum like a guitar,
just brushing my cheekbones-
and yet it is the wildest of caresses,
the most passionate of songs.
He plays again- C major-
teasing back a lock of hair.
And- f minor-
his eyes lock with mine
and whisper secrets and stories they never meant to tell.
And I think, somehow, I would survive just for this,
and it would be worth it:
my minstrel, playing a song at the edge of death,
somehow sounding like a resurrection.
This post was created for Opus on 1st, which you can learn more about at my friend Jackie’s blog, Lights All Around.