Some days I feel
like a guitar
that is missing
a string.
It sounds sad
but I assure you
it’s okay.
And I’ll never know
the sound that string sings,
but my foolish heart
believes that string
is the one that says everything;
the one that puts me in the veins
under your skin,
between the synapses that fire
in your mind,
between your inhale
and exhale,
and on the tip of your tongue,
so that I can taste you
before my moon
splits in two.