When you play your guitar, I was entranced by your mysterious melody.
Your calloused fingers,
Plucked and caressed,
the copper string of your old mahogany guitar, Ibanez.
The one you had since you were a child,
The one you were now playing for me on the dew drop grass of this frigid 4th of July night.

Gentle tremors shake my heartstrings.
I watch you so closely.
Watching your face as you play.
You look up at me for a second and what I saw was more beautiful than music.