Guitar

By: Pat Adams

Without a word you said so much, speech found on guitar strings, meaning gained from rhythm. Notes ring out, filling the stale air of the basement, bouncing off the bare cement, getting trapped in the blankets on the bed. Memories translated into a language anyone can understand, you speak of things you could never say. You never could talk to me, I never could hear what you really were trying to say. Maybe it was my fault, maybe I was not really listening. And now as a tear rolls down my face I finally understand your message. But it's too late, isn't it? The song has taken a sour and sinister tone, distortion you have on the guitar now. The staccato beat of your song says goodbye, the low string's bass pushing me away. Does it have to be this way? Why do I understand music so well but cannot interact with people I love?

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