Dear Guitar

I woke wanting to submerge myself in melody and lyrics and she was ready for me.  Begging for me, really.  I keep her out of the case now in hopes that inspiration will grab me and I'll steal a moment to titillate her frets.  She's dusty and tunes stubbornly and her strings smell like an old penny.

She's comfortable in my hands, the curve of her body fits my own like we're kindred spirits.  I'm not that good but I feel empowered as I belt out an early morning Melissa Etheridge anthem.  To hell with the consequence!  

I go for a good hour.  It's been too long.  My fingers hurt and my nail is filed down because I couldn't find a pick.  I play a bunch of my own songs.  I have enough to fill four albums.  

And it occurs to me...what kind of person owns a recording studio and doesn't have a record of their own songs?

Dear Guitar, 

Thanks.

Love Alanna