if i were a Soul Singer,
i would say that the stubble
on your left cheek
is actually sandpaper, and that your skin is
crinkled like some cigarette you ground
into the
sidewalk
last night

but i am no Soul Singer,
although there was a cigarette last night
that I twirled between my jagged fingers,
ceaselessly,
as you played a broken concerto on
my father's old piano

you strike a C major and ask me what
i think,
and i don't have the heart to tell you that i
never did like major chords,
because isn't hearing the minor ones
like looking in a
mirror?

all i can do is pin up my cracked lips
as if they are
photographs (black & white),
and press them to
your eyelids
we stay like statues until
my fingers stop twirling,
until the piano keys sputter under newly fallen
ash;

no,
i am no Soul Singer, and something
sinks when
i realize
my eardrums are still tangled
with that C major you played
when
the moon was peering down …
i guess i won't have a reason
to get dolled up now,

will i?