The minstrel looks at me
From under the brim of his hat
As he strums his guitar
With sensitive fingertips
I see an errant curl on his forehead
Reach up to touch it as I whisper
Into the curve of his ear
He smiles at me slyly
His lips a promise of something
I instinctively want to lean closer
But the room is full of others
And I think him a bit shy
He sings his song slowly
His mouth like a caress on the mike
And I close my eyes
Perhaps I will someday be the instrument
The one he strokes to emit ballads
My moans music to his artistic appreciation
The curve of my cheek
But a note waiting to be transposed
My shudders eliciting a refrain
For a new melody
All the while sitting in this crowded room
Wanting
And just for now I listen
And he sings
Pain is Universal 