Wrapped In Chords
The hardest chords produce the most beautiful songs—
I remind myself as my eyes lock on the toasted caramel guitar propped in the corner, a thin layer of dust and windblown dirt frosted over the curves. My breath sharpens and my hands begin twitching, itching to hold you, to feel you in my lap, to run my dancing fingers over your neck and play the familiar notes that feel like home. Single notes that recognise my touch, warm notes that obey the spastic spirals of my prints.
My eyes flutter to the body of the guitar, fixating on the pear shape that fits so seamlessly into my own ridges. Chest softening, I prepare my arms to wrap around you, my heart to pump vulnerable beats to bring you to life. Losing myself, I fully surrender and scoop you into me. I hold you tight, and I begin to play.
The rusty squeaks of pained strings remind me the guitar needs to be tuned. I silently apologise for the neglect, for leaving you untouched and abandoned. Often I stare at you from bed, carving my nails into my lips, my left side laying numb as I battle the urge to tuck you in. Yet I fix your sound, repair your temporary flaws. My ears catch your soothing lullaby, but my gaze is trapped inside your unavoidable gaping hole.
What an enchanting phenomenon, for a guitar to emit such volume despite being void, being hollow. The pressure I force onto each string, each fret, transitions from spotty single plucks into harmonious strums. Your chords are natural and raw, my limbs settling into a steady, comfortable routine. I know this sound. I adore this sound.
My brow furrows as I realise this song has been performed all too much. My default escape. I ponder when the guitar last challenged me, taught me a new lesson. My arm begins whipping up, down, up, down, as fury releases. You captured me, ensnared me into thinking a ballad can only be performed one way. My wrist flicks, my hands widen, my muscles stretch to new limits.
My fingers tango, waltz, limbo their way through the strings, testing their creative abilities. My fingers explore the depths, distances, vibrations of an instrument that knows no limits. My fingers, callused and sore and weak, stumble upon the most exquisite chords, discovering opportunity in pain.
The stagnant notes I once loved float down into the guitar cavity. I question if they will ever surface.
I strike a bar chord with flawless precision, harmonising the perfect answer.