Why The Fret Board Calls The Heart By Girlwithablackguitar

My guitar sits across the room from me, her surface a shiny, scratched black, and her fretboard a dark rosewood.

As you tenderly pick her up, strum a chord, it happens.

The release of crap from your day, the release of that pent-up heart break that you've been stopping from flowing down your face, the feeling of being better, as you strum the hell out of that guitar.

It'll all be ok, you've no real idea why, but the aching slowly fades, your insides don't feel quite so clenched in pain.  You can walk from the room a little more human.


The End

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