The Empty Guitar

While absent mindedly looking at the guitar in the corner of my room you had yet to take back it struck me. I was everything sitting there from the simple wood grain to the delicately carved sides. The rounded opening strung with cords that had always been so much hollower than it seemed. You had played my melodies so easily, as if it had all come so naturally to you. The only tune I can feel hum inside me anymore is the distant beat that your heart used to play on windy afternoons or on long winter nights curled up next to me. And now for some reason those leftover tunes play just deep enough to show me how hollow I have become in your absence. They reverberated though me dull and aching as if just a simple breath could topple my bones over like a house of cards. I have become an empty wood shell that is only played by what used to be, which makes everything hurt that much more. I guess I've discovered I don't know how to be anything other than your pastime or anything more than a faded lullaby.  

Chantell,
xoxo