Julietta
It’s rare that my hand isn’t tense with the first few strums. From the tips of my fingers to the knuckle bones, the wrist, shoulders, and everything between mind and toes.
From the vibration of melodic string, my heart melts into a serene trance — down, up, down, up; thumb, fingers, thumb, fingers, slide the left pointer up one fret and pick it all over again.
I play the tune that brings about dancing thoughts of you across my mind. Sometimes I find myself getting ahead of myself.
By 9 o’clock, my tea has gone cold; once again, I’ve lost track of time within stumbled finger-picks and strums from wanting it all too badly.
I begin to play a lighter tune — Here Comes the Sun, Island in the Sun — in which, they are always played with grace.
Once I’ve loosened my mind, I would have one last hand at playing for you; of course, done perfectly, hoping you are looking at the same moon I have; and in that instant, the right stars have fallen out of place.
I recently saw a photo of a girl in a black silk dress, lying beneath her guitar, as she contrasted atop white sheets. I began dreaming of a Sunday morning amidst this very scenario:
It’s spring, the windows open, and the birds singing alongside the tune of my choosing, as the warmth of refreshed winds caress my tired skin.
I also dream of playing to the waves alongside its own tune of ravenous tranquility.
One day soon, I’m certain of it, I’ll find the right words to write a song: perhaps sentimental, perhaps sensual, perhaps harmoniously contradictive.
Or perhaps, collectively, all three, in attempt to paint a picture of how I feel of the time I’ve had on Earth.
In all honesty, I may stumble upon my words more often than I’d like to admit, searching, constantly searching, for the perfect ones to bring alive between pen and paper; only to realize the most simple were always enough — harmonious, as they were, intertwined with a lighter tune of mindless poise.
