It sits pouting in the corner, my guitar, its slender neck pointing into the air like an accusatory finger, or perhaps like a phallic symbol mocking me in my temporary (but still maddening) celibacy. We both miss him, my guitar and me. We both sigh and moan, counting the days until he comes home again. We both long to feel his skilled fingers once again, him playing us both with equal vigor and producing the loveliest of music from each of us.
Only a week without him--that's nothing compared to the years my guitar and I were without him before we knew him, but of course the intensity of being without him could only be felt in cruel contrast to the intensity and pleasure of being with him. I didn't know how much I was missing him until the day he captured me with his blue gaze and dropped a slow, sexy wink. Now I know exactly how much I'm missing him--enough to fill my days with thoughts of him, even as I sternly remind myself to get a grip and knock that shit off, before lapsing back into my bittersweet blue-eyed daydreams minutes later. Enough to fill my nights with dreams, either strange or erotic but always with him here with me and my guitar, right where he belongs.
Only a few days, then my guitar and I will be touched again the way we need to be touched. As much as I love my guitar, though, I'm afraid I must insist--me first!
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