And though I have a heart that beats
with cadence and metaphor, still you
don’t know the colour of my eyes.
You once told me you liked music, so
I tried to rip my heart out for you, but
you had already left the table.
So instead I ripped apart the timber of
the house I grew up in and I used it to
build a guitar with my own hands.
I wrote you songs in A minor that told
stories of the way I long to stroke the
hair that falls across your face.
I started to play them for you but then
you told me stories of the way her eyes
glow like the colour of wheat.
You never did notice your name etched
on the guitar and even now, I still write
songs to you I’ll never sing.
All my metaphors are lost on you.
~ ©️Kathy Parker ~
Day Four #poemadayfeb: Guitar