I imagine if I just keep playing

The strings of this guitar will become

Strains of your hair.

The wetness on my cheeks come from

London rain and long lost battles I try not to remember.

Instead of trying to win I left the battlefield to follow the sound of guitars playing.

I am starting to believe there was no war,

I was no Jeanne d’arc

And anyway

I should have already learnt my lesson about listening to angels by now.

They did have a  tendency to lead people into fire.

I stroke your hair and try to remember the chords of our song,

But in the end I just let my fingers rest on your heartstrings,

Yours in the only stage I will ever play.


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