Take your curled strumming fingers,
nails chewed off,
and pluck the strings of right here.
Turn it into a melody for us,
the ones you’ve been waiting for
in the rain.
We’ve peeled our own hearts raw
to be here with you too.
So sing us the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing us their mean, dirty chorus.
You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,
you wring them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.
Help us brave the ghosts in the graveyard
where we once buried our dissonant chords.
Lift our chins to the moon,
give us rose petals for the path.
Help us gather our neglected, nameless thoughts
from under the rug,
from the back of our drawers.
We’ll let them sit on our desktops;
Lend us your pen and we’ll number them.
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