Not being the music

I once kinda owned a guitar whose strings i couldn't play.
i'm ashamed of the way it harvested dust in the corner,
wishing to be in a spot warmer and
gentler to its glossed wood. However,my sister took it away.Today I stood, hands clasped behind my back, imagining the way slow notes
evolve into a track, a railway of sound
that can take me
somewhere other than the end of the
day. there is talking and then there is the way you make music with your lips; my
hands are on your hips and a slight cramp is in my wrists from
holding too tightly. you drop letters
lightly into the air, consonants and vowels barely there moving together, making words i've never heard before. this is the way your voice drugs me, hugs me
in y's and and i's, leaves me breathless for more. i'm quiet only when i sleep – there's a silence whose company i cannot keep
but always seem to need
and it's in dreams where my peace
seems to rest, broken at best. in the
morning the feeling leaves
and i'm left staring at the eaves outside my window, searching for a way to
make the pain go. i'm not meek, but for the life of me i
cannot speak – i get lost in my phrases, stumbling through them
like mazes with too many bends and no
visible end. you catch every fallen sigh
with trembling fingers
and the sting of that lingers; i hear you
through blocked ears, asking me to voice my fears like you
ask the ocean's waves to calm down
and behave. no matter what i choose, i lose; my life
is like a dance with fate, every chance i
take predicted,
scripted. you lean towards me, reaching
for me, but i'm always pulling away - a speechless man whose heart just won't stay.