I am only so good
Because I keep my fingers
Busy on a fretboard
And I tend to savor
Fruit pops too sensually
As any connoisseur would
But what is taste
Without fresh perspective
I asked, clad in
My plaid habit
You replied by bringing
Your strawberry lips
To my ink mouth
Giving me so much more to write about
Warmth cascades
From my head
Down to my toes
And no one knows
How many stanzas have stemmed
From my core
Since my heart sang
Iridescence in your direction
As though my notes
Could colour the grayscale
Of every eight measure exercise
I have sightread
Comparable to the dull drag
Of days gone by
Without your melodic movement
May I add harmony to it
My hands are shaking
For paper and a pen
But it can wait
The best lines come
When you make my heart race


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