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'