turn on the night light

Like the strum of the guitar My body moves to the chords  I create with my fingers. I know the sound I am meant  To hear  And yet I know that the  Strings are out of tune. All it takes is a tiny twist Of the knobs but each twist  Pulls at the strings  With each memory tied to them  Like the knapsack on the stick  That the child takes on their first ever  Journey across the river. Each twist of the knob and  Each pull of the strings takes me Back to those memories  I carry along my back  My knapsack filled with  Rocks and stones  And none of them precious  And they all seem too heavy  To carry and I seem to buckle  And may fall off the track, But I step I strum my fingers after The first twist and I hear it, The sound meant to come From the strums of the strings  And I play,  Until I hear the sound of the tune  Out of place  And I do it all over again. 

I'm consumed by the thought of you.  The chap on your lips, the lines of your brown eyes, the graze of your fingertips along my chin bounce around in my head, a celebratory dance that circles my mind, when I think of you.  The depth of your voice matches my desire to go, know,  you, myself,  deeper than the passerby can fathom in their lifetime. The rush of adrenaline that floods my veins when I see you again, each time, like that first January night, only, stronger.  I can feel the cold leather against my skin as I felt that first touch.  The scent of you left me in tangles, twists and turns I dared not undo.  I shook out of my shoes and glared into the space I occupied that you called yours.  You stared at me from the stairs that seemed miles away, I blink and you were there, consuming me in the space where I dare not move.  Breaths were short, my heart beat out of my chest and into my fingertips and you kissed me, the brush turned to pressure turned to bite. The devil's snar