You sit in the corner all dirty and dusty. It’s understandable.
We partied like rock stars last night.
I reach for your black zipper and slowly pull it down to the floor. I grab you by the neck and extract your from your soft black case that keeps you captive.
You were so raw and raunchy last night. The crowd was wowed as you bended and flashed brief moments of brilliancy.
I knew they weren’t your own moves though. They were borrowed from people much more talented and original than you player.
I’ve had a love affair with you since the first time I saw you sitting in a corner by yourself. I brought you home and tickled you non-stop.
The very next day my wife told me she was pregnant. She wanted me to get rid of you.
But now my daughter plays with your silky strings, and she’s glad I didn’t.
Your blue sparkles catch the light like diamonds scattered across the sky. Your steel whammy-bar makes you talk funny. The three knobs and pickups, when in-sync, can sound like a Mack Truck or an angel’s harp, but rarely in my hands.
That is, until last night.