There’s you strumming your musky guitar
Across a velveteen couch.
You are only a few chipped and painted fingers away,
Grazing your hand over and over again
With the same pattern
I do not feel the earthquakes on the couch,
And I cannot hear the earth clattering over your
I do not feel the tremble of the house
Or the leaves shaking off of the trees.
I feel my own body quaking.
My hands are hot as embers
And my shoulders feel cool as glass.
Every Sunday I want to pull away
And hear my own voice sing,
But my fingers are drawn to touch you
And graze through your pomade hair.
Your denim smile is tight
And doesn’t fit my body too well
But I can’t wear my velvet dress anymore.
I can’t bear the weight of it.