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The Old Guitarist

He couldn’t remember how long he sat there, fingers
strummed the strings till calluses overcame them. Life
depleted from his body, bones barely held together.

Sleep frightened him. He shut his eyes, the chords dissipated
from his mind, his fingers lacked the rhythm to make that guitar sing. The fabric

of his shirt tore, thin cotton slowly digested into the mouths of moths as his
fingers twitched over the tabs. Cracked alabaster peeked from the slit
in his pants, unaccustomed to the science of sunrays.

He played the psalm of the past, hummed a hymn of hydrangeas, blue
overwhelming every aspect. He memorized each chord, a chorus

of cashmere against silk skin. He tweaked a lullaby of laughter, the acoustics vibrated
the world around him. He spoke this verse every night, unwilling to teach his guitar another
language.

It was her favorite song.