Lingering Pain

I can't stop feeling her face.

Not seeing, feeling. We were so close so often that the shape of her face against mine took on more meaning. The impression derails me during work hours, plagues me at night.

Today I couldn't handle that memory, so I picked up the guitar to handle that instead. Its dark gleaming body is hard, not soft like hers. Its curves are unforgiving and rigid. I press my fingers against the strings and grip the pick.

GBbCDFG

It takes over an hour of going up and down this pattern on a single portion of the long stiff neck, not round or safe like hers, before my fingers start to hurt. I play in quarter notes, then eights, sixteenths, triplets, alternating third intervals. My hands are not strong and sure. I feel them weakening, given away by the ugly buzz and plunk of missed moments. A replay of us begins. I force myself to breathe and play again. I press harder into the strings, biting back the pain. If I could just fret harder-

If I could just fret harder.

Then I burst into tears.