Portuguese Guitar

I look at his indented and calloused fingertips.
Worn from wire strings. He sings and he strums.

He closes his eyes. He sings Portuguese ballads and lullabies.
All night long. He laughs musical notes and I only want to join.

I want to kiss each tip of finger and each closed eyelid.
Each dark eyelash. I want to kiss the lips of his song.

The wooded guitar in his hands could be me. He could touch
my long neck and make me beautiful. I long to be made lovely

and melodic. If he would take me and practice hour upon hour
on my strings. Turn me about and smile at what he can create with me.

I do not understand his songs. But they are poetry and have
taken me. I hunger for his lullaby to make me dream forever.