The Musician

He plays jazz And if you ask him why he'll say that it makes him feel something And you can tell by the look on his face when he plays that he's telling the truth Which seems unusual for someone with such dark eyes, that seem to swallow you whole As soon as he makes contact with the innocent look on your face He preys off of the lovely The naive, the wonderstruck And the ones looking for someone to fix He comes to them with a charming grin and a guitar slung across his back So already he is irresistible, as any starving artist is But he is more than that He is ravenous for the next girl to come along, the next musical note in the haunting lullaby that he calls his life When he strums his guitar he only sees the heartstrings of the girls he has broken When he pushes himself forward on his stool he does not feel the music pouring over him He feels himself sliding into the next groupie The next victim, the next "lover" of his music, of his tar black soul He enchants his girls with strong fingers and a silk voice and a promise to make them feel whole for a night I think of him when I stare into my morning coffee, hot and dark I think of him when the coals spark inside of a roaring fire I think of him when I wake from a nightmare, covered in sweat and breathing heavy He has carved himself into my conscious, always lingering in the back of my mind, refusing to be forgotten Sometimes I wonder where he is, who he is, who he's inside, who he's destroyed I wonder if he found what he was looking for, whatever it was, whatever I couldn't give him I hope he did