My glossy, stickerless guitar
sits in the corner of my room
begging to be picked up every now and then.
Last summer I fell in love with this urban-tinged instrument.
With the slick strings, waiting patiently to be
touched, picked, plucked by my
agile fingers, naive to the unknown chords.
I fell in love with its melodious vibrations,
acoustic, rusty taste.
hollow like one’s chest, empty, but with
strings like a tongue, allowing it to speak
a language all can hear
but only some can understand.
Pure notes, rich with passion
produced by memorized patterns
Sparking memories of my past,
leaving my eyes red and puffy.
Lines engraved into fingertips,
printed, stamped as evidence of having played for
hours off end.
A false note, repeat; again.
G, C, Em, D…
practice, practice, practice…
My glossy, stickerless guitar,
still sitting there in my room.
Knobs polished white,
strings tightened against the frame.
So serene yet with such a potential