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My Weeping Guitar

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(This 'prose' is (kinda) more of experiment with a writing a story based around a song lyric - in this case 'The Beatles: While My Guitar Gently Weeps' - and adding elements of poetry. It might work...)



My Weeping GuitarIt’s late, or is it early? I don’t know. Can never be that sure. All I know is that it’s two thirty in the morning, and the day is a mere few hours from forming.
I sit here looking out, gazing into the blanket black sky, I ask myself why? Why are you here? Where did you come from?
You, who lie there in the blissful peacefulness of the afterglow of sex. You, who lie there sleeping. I wonder what you are dreaming, what secrets you are keeping.
We have known each other less than seven hours, but from the moment our eyes met, we knew the night was ours.
And I gently, and quietly, pluck the strings of this here, weeping guitar.

The refreshing summer breeze slips in through the window, like an uninvited stranger from the night-time shadows. It ruffles the curtains, and brings my attentions back to the room, this room that has suffered a dinner party, and now stands in the ruins.
The almost empty wine glasses, and the dirty dinner plates that lie almost uniformly with their cutlery, are scattered across the table, along with the partly full astray, and the two drained wine bottles.
You were his plus one, but he had to leave, this doctor on call, who thought he was a superhero out to save us all, and my former lady had decided to move on to pastures green, to become a memory, forgotten when not seen. And this left us alone, with he conversation to ourselves, and the opportunity to explore each other deeper.
I glance down to the floor at the discarded clothing that litters the polish ‘rustic finished’ wooden paneling. The colour of mahogany, and in complete contrast to your innocent white underwear, which will in the morning, when replaced, be scented with the moment we shared.
Sliding up the fret board, my fingers fall into an A minor, and I gently strum the chord, once, before picking the strings again, the sounds echoing off the stone walls of the cottage.

You said you had never felt love before, never felt that passion of the sexual embrace, the desire within, which seeped through the skin, in balls of perspiration. You had never been allowed to, a slave to your father as a child, and subsequent lovers. Men who wanted control, total control, and dutifully you played out the role. You had never felt the confidence to ask for what you wanted, no matter how strong the urge.

A distant sound draws me back to the window, a distant nameless sound that has no reason to be heard.
Yet it is. It is carried on that gentle summer breeze, from the rolling countryside outside, and in through that open window. Carried to me, a stranger who will ignore it as soon as I acknowledge it.
My gazed lingers at the window, and in that instant I see a shooting star - or I think I do - reaching across the sky, splitting it open and spilling out a brief bright burning light. I wonder if anyone else saw it but I.
And this reminds of the world turning, the time passing, the future becoming the past and each moment threatening to be our last.
Removing a finger I turn the A minor into a sadder, but contrastingly brighter A minor seventh.

I feel you shift beside me, snuggling up closer, deeper in to me, your arms wrapped around my naked waist. And I know if you could, you would, crawl inside me, and curl within me, curl up by the fireside in my heart.
I look to you, I watch you, my desire for you there in my eyes, my hunger for you in my thighs, and my wanting, longing for you in my loins. I wonder how, why I deserved you, why you choose to open up to me.
For you were…you are younger, with time still on your side, with bridges still to burn, mistakes from which you can learn. Yet I have limited time, limited options. And having chosen the artist life, I live it day with the cavalier attitude that it could be my last, forever hoping to leave footprints in the past.
Feeling the melancholy of an E minor, my fingers fluently slip into the chord; my weeping guitar echoes my sentiment.

There’s so much understanding you need to offer me. So much faith you will have to place within me. For, I will want you to go so deep within you, for me. For, I want to know everything. How they manage to twist you the way they have? How they got you to accept it as normality? Why they didn’t offer you the choice, and why no one else intervened?

‘Sleep.’ The sweetness of your voice, the softness of its interruption, brings a smile to my face. I look at you, blinded by your beauty as I trace the contours of your features. There are so many words to describe the essence of your allure, yet so few come to me now. ‘Sleep now.’ You repeat, your pillow lips barely parting for the words to escape. I watch you for a moment longer, feel your soft wet breath on my side, before sliding deep down, to entwine with you.

Having placed the weeping guitar down, the final note lingering as it decreases, and I reach to turn the light…

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