Guitar

It weeps. Cries. At the feeling of one's touch. The hollering, screaming, wrecking innocence, in silence. It once lay awaiting the touch, awaiting the callused fingertips, crisp and ready- for the first strum, bleeding into a love song, silently killing a dove and regretting that first encounter. Which turned into obsession, deep, penetrating breaths, lingering while the wind unfolds the secrets, the story within the tune, the life throughout the song. And it never takes a soul for granted, it gives more and more asking nothing in return, patiently waiting for one more encounter, a master soon to be.