Mending Your Guitar

Curve of its side stoved
as if a drum skin torn,
splintered to the size of a fist
that could never again fit
in the cradle of your arm.
Its wood long given up
your tobacco scent,
specks of your skin now mingle
in the frets with mine.
Touch almost too light,
almost too heavy-
all you could do
but to hold on to its neck
as your chords crashed, roared
and dragged you away, upwards.
The final string you snapped
on that last whiskey and raging night
still resounding.
No more late nights, no loud guitar.
You promised.
Patched up now,
your broken machine
resurrected into new songs
I can hear you singing.

Published in 'Dream Catcher'