He sings into the microphone and tries to look out over the crowd equally. But she has a lasso on his eyes and he wants to wail the words only to her. His guitar feels heavier in his hands looking at her. He imagines her body in his arms, her arms – the strap around his neck. His fingers hold the fret and feel her pulse. His fingers strum the seam line on the side of her hips.
He closes his eyes and remembers the last time they made love. It was the same morning she left him, blood on his hands and tears tattooed on his soul. The bridge arrives and he opens his eyes. The crowd expands and contracts like a breathing animal and has swallowed her entirely in the time he took to reminisce. His guitar becomes a rifle and he wants to aim into the mindless mass of fans and avenge her. But he just keeps scratching the magazine and gripping the barrel. A sea of eyes openly adores him while he preaches love into their ears, wishes them all gone, wills the reappearance of just one. Hate fills him and he can’t understand its origin. But the intensity – he understands the intensity.