She is down there
playing chicken with the tide
her white calves glistening
against the moonlit water
I am up here
with my fingers splayed wide
on the window glass
tracing words I won't confess
I leave my guitar idly
on the floor
always leave it wanting more
with no words left
I am muted to the core
I would be her music
if she would lend me
her words
I'd be a damned syphony
if she looked at me
with the desperate abandon
she reserves
solely for the beckoning waves
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