if there is something
more to love than heartache
well, he has yet to find it

maybe, he thinks
when he looks at you
there could be more
but the breaking of a heart
just seems to sell better
doesn’t it?

if this is a curse
then it’s little more than self-inflicted
and it must be
when there are no flowers winding
vines around ribs, forcing out ****** petals
in place of calling your name

food does not turn to ash in his mouth
and water quenches
while alcohol burns just the same
and he distantly wonders if there
isn’t something burning in him, too

does longing burn?
reaching out for a sea captain
that is tethered to the ocean
just as the bard is tethered
to the metaphor of love

and how the sun looks
when it breaks through
gaps in the leaves
and caresses your sleeping face
like he longs to do

but there is no place here
for touches so vulnerable and kind
the shadows long lashes make
on your stubbled cheeks
is not for him to witness

but, oh, he wishes it was
wants to tuck flowers
free of blood and bone
into your long hair
and maybe even hold your hand

for you see,
the bard is a simple man
easily pleased and open
in the love he gives

practically overflowing
an ocean contained within
the body of a man

and won’t you let him fill
your cup with something other
than *** and the persistent ache
of telling yourself
that you’re better off alone?