Last Friday a couple of friends from the dorm kindly brought me a borrowed guitar to play in the dark.
I fell in love with it right when I felt the lacquered wood sliding into my arms. I gently plucked each string with my finger, miraculously drawing soft broken music out of it. I found I had forgotten the chords and lyrics from the songs I used to play, but that didn’t matter at all, for I could have spent the whole night caressing the ever so smooth surface, listening to each note as to drops of water from a secret spring in the midst of a cave.
Oh, brief romance; the night was over and we were forced to say goodbye. What deliciously wooden body am I to hug from now on? Where will my voice come from if utter silence is not enough?
I desperately need my own guitar.