Notes & Moans

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It was too late.
Too late for sleep or break. Too late to say no. The night creaked along the sky as bags crept under his eyes. His hands ached from continuous strumming on the guitar that helped his attain his dream. He hugged it against his bare chest, vulnerable and searching for comfort. The cold, smooth body was empty of emotion. The one possession he had that on any day held his soul, spirit, and secrets now was black and vapid as her eyes. ….As her eyes were when she turned toward his nifty highness in a leather jacket and blue jeans.
Playing it didn’t feel the same- it didn’t feel like anything. He couldn’t find the right chord and the strings felt as if he was plucking poisonous razor blades. He put forth every effort he had in fighting her image and began to desperately play her out of his mind. Strumming and banging on the guitar’s body loudly to mute and erase his last memory of her.
No matter how hard he played, it mimicked her gasps, his thrust, the bed breaking against the wall. He wanted new inspiration; to create something without her; to prove she was a mistake- a fluke- in his life. Every chord was her moans. The vibrations were the trembles between their bodies once out of breath. The curves of the instrument became her slender hips and thighs framing her taut torso. He ached for her as his fingers dried and cracked. The harder he played, the faster and harder their bodies writhed against each other. His sweat dripped onto her bare, glistening chest. All at once, the music swelled and the climax echoed throughout the hollowed house.
He sat back, panting, looking at his bloody and bruised fingers. Finally, he whispered the response that should have escaped him as she walked away.
Goodbye.

Created: Aug 12, 2012

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