You play guitar so eloquently.  I desire your rhythm.
You create sound, vibration with the flick of a
Wrist.
While I ****** my own.

Your pick is plastic, harmless to the flesh
and you make love to your guitar
as you stroke her strings.

I ****** myself slowly plucking away
at my own strings.
With my own pick.

My edge is razor sharp, as is yours
just two different perspectives.

You think quickly and remember
the sound each string makes

While I fumble from vein to vein.

I once saw you working down stairs
and you slid a staple into the wall
and it reminded me
Of sliding needles into my vein and ripping them
out.
SO it would bleed,
more than any one ever should.
I feel this now, in my veins.
Its healing in some way.
To write about the past
and hope you dont go back
because that would mean
dying