while my guitar gently weeps

i listen in regret.
as she lays silent  
underneath the bed frame of my childhood. there are
memories packed into the pastel yellow duvet
that i clutched to comfort my fear
of letting go
of figures in the past time.

i never learned to play her
and the shame overcomes me when
acoustics touch my heartstrings tenderly. i grieve for
her life for it has been so isolated.
she is simply "what could have been"
an awakening that has yet to rise
and escape into masterpieces

i long for her while i never truly knew her
at all
her infinite potential to create such
flawless forms of storytelling

i long for the forgone companionship  
encompassed so deeply
though for now she rests still
beside scrapbooks crowded into
spaces without room to breathe
or purpose to see the light
of the morning