A rustic, nostalgic guitar collecting dust.
Once, my hands strummed its strings
Every chord a different melody
Each one like a pulse of a heartbeat in metal
Guitar is my first love
Its strings the hands I hold
Its songs effortlessly entrusting in my flaws
In one stroke, silence snuck in like a thief of the night
Heisting my devotion, in a swift motion
Dust gathers like forgotten snow
Across the frets like cigarette ash,
The remains of a fire long gone
Now when I see it,
I’m reminded of its once beautiful artistry
Now just something to nostalgize
Guitar was my first love
faithful still,
Waits like an old flame gathering dust in my bedroom corner