ImpTheArtist

He named his guitar after me, you know. He told me he'd caress it like it was my own body. He made love to me that night, and for months after I could hear him making music-love to the me-guitar. Three years later, I found the guitar in his garage sale. "It's just an instrument, kid," he told me, catching me around the waist and pressing the softest kiss against my neck. Oh, baby - I knew you would sell my soul someday. But I helped; helped you to the door, at least. As I walked out of our shared life, I broke the guitar for you. And it only struck me later that there was a metaphor in there somewhere, but I was too broken to care.