Westwind

This is Not a Love Song

J. Alexander Kinnear

I played you a song on the harmonica,

although wordless,

                                        full-mouthed overblown

breaths and the sweat that fell

 

from my forehead divulged

how fucked up fucked up

had become for us and how blood

in the blues jibes with life.

 

My murmured heart: the call—

the response: your quiet touch

 

upon my jeaned waist. Undelivered

kisses are memories

                                        made up. Mascara ran

down your cheeks as my lips slid the harp

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