This Text file is old! In a 🏛️Museum, an unsorted archive of (user-)pages. (Saved from Geocities in Oct-2009. The archival story: oocities.org)
--------------------------------------- (To 🚫report any bad content: archivehelp @ gmail.com)

							
Infatuation

Against the stool where he perches				
leans his guitar.
The polished wood shines
like the over-caked make-up that hides me,
the strings as taut
as the ribbons of words unsaid 
that thread
through
my ribs.

His fingers,
nails bitten to indentations in skin,
rifle the music pages.
His eyes are gray today,
the color of clouds pregnant with rain.
My eyes are black crows
flocking from forbidden corn fields
at the sound of a hunting gun.
 
When return is safe, the crows sweep in,
to feast once again.