His guitar stands resplendent,
Statuesque. His muse – ethereal,
awaiting him to place it into its tomb-like case.
He strokes it with long, practised fingers,
caressing the taut strings.
I watch as he takes the instrument into his arms,
gently placing it into the case lined with purple velvet,
as one would place a newborn,
holding the back of the spine until last.
Clicking silver clasps shut, he leaves.
I crawl from my hiding place,
lying myself down on the cheap carpet beside it.
I am the same length exactly
as my rival.
I move close, closer still –
and, like osmosis,
try to absorb a piece of his affection.
Kate Jones ©
Previously Published in sicklitmaagzine.com