The hero of Harry Childers doesn’t write Byronic verse; he writes songs.
As I got into bed, I watched Harry strumming his new guitar by the window. Sometimes he hummed, then paused, searching the air for words. He la-la-ed his way to the next verse. His sensitive fingers stretched across the frets. His voice was like silver. I fell asleep to the silvery melancholy sound being evoked. Feeling alone in the cold moonlight, I waited for the sun. The moon peeked through the curtains.
“‘Unmask my heart.’ Sound okay?” Drowsily I agreed and listened and Harry sang out the refrain.