In the first time you played for me, your fingers couldn't tighten on the strings. The Fall of '68 enveloped us inside the camp, so we protected our legs from the cold with a patchwork outside my multicolored Kombi. I remember that, even though you were a intruder back then, we knew you would eventually become one of us. Your spirit longed to be free like ours. Maybe I was already in love with you, I can't really tell.
In the second time you played for me, you told me you loved me through the lyrics that came out from between your lips. Just a few months had passed, but you could dominate the guitar as if it was part of you. We searched for heat in the bonfire, I danced with the stars inside my flowered skirt. And then my boyfriend arrived, so I broke your heart.
In the third time you played to me, perhaps you hated me, though I hardly doubt so. I can't believe that any bad feeling could come around to anyone on the Spring of '69. Not when the sunflowers I planted bloomed and made all the camp's floor turn yellow. I think you were relieved that I came back to you, I certainly knew that our love was finally about to start.
And then it started, and you played to me a thousand times before touching me; my lips, my body, my heart and soul. And you made me yours. Who would guess that, Cooper? Me? A free spirit? Belonging to someone?
The last time you played to me, it was summer. Woodstock was huge, but your eyes were in me. And I knew you loved me, and that I was yours, and we would be together forever.
I didn't know you would leave. Didn't know you would come off the stage right into a plane. Right into Vietnam, even if your heart and soul were left behind.
And now you play for me, like the first time you did. Your fingers don't tighten on the strings, tears come down from your eyes because you can't even hear the sound you make. A bomb sent you home, a bomb broke your free spirit. A bomb took the music away from you forever.
I hope you still love me, because I know I've never stopped being yours.
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