The guitar.
You touch it
and it sings.
You run your calloused fingertips over the strings
and it lifts you away.
The guitar.
I see it.
I touch it and it frowns.
I run my fingers over it and it screeches.
It is too heavy in my hands to lift me away,
and my baby fingers have red grill marks from the wires.
You could dance around the room and the guitar would carry your feet
as you strum and sing with the strings.
I could jump off the couch with it
and break all my bones.
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