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

You play

Every Sunday.

I do not feel the earthquakes on the couch,

And I cannot hear the earth clattering over your

Husky voice.

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.


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