There's dust gathering on the bed frame
Interspaced with gaps left by careless and infrequent touches
A chair piled high with jackets worn but once
or crumpled on a cold floor
Sheets collect long hair on the left side
unwashed dishes pile on the right
Tucked in the shadows rests a guitar
aching to be tuned
A long neck for fingers to stroke
while the strings quiver and thrum
from the plucking of strong sure fingers
But the glossy covers of the worn paperbacks
decorated with well-ripped bodices
Laugh at the naive temporary song
A quick release
Only to return to the dusty
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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