Coarse surfaces of wound strings

burn my fingertips and etch

their lines in each until the bloody

X's appear. Yet I cannot

put

you

down.

High E string slices through my baby

finger like a razorblade

during a slide. Yet I cannot

put

you

down.

You're hollow, empty: I fill you up

with my soul, and as you release it slowly,

my mind goes blank. Yet I cannot

put

you

down.

The frets of your brown, hardwood fingerboard

bumps in the road I must overcome

to play melodies. Yet I cannot

put

you

down.

In time I learn where the bumps lay

my fingers feel them out and slide over, realizing

them without thought. Yet I cannot

put

you

down.

Your tuning pegs, white, ivory, delicately hold

everything in balance. Yet you let me change

keys according to my mood.

Your scratches and scrapes, evidence of my

physical abuse. Yet you encourage me to hit you harder.

Your resonance, loud, obnoxious, invites

neighbours to complain.

You are precision. I am brutality.

Yet together,

we are one.