Dear Forgotten Guitar

I sit haphazardly cross-legged on my bed, 
arm strewn lazily over the curve of your wooden body,
fingers carelessly stroking your rusting strings,
as I hum along to a song I am just about to create.

With each careful application of pressure on your frets,
a bass line slowly blossoms and rumbles.
With each scratch as my hovering hand glides up and down,
a melody slowly grows and echos.

For you, my dear guitar, are a gateway to magic,
with each alternating strum and natural slap of your strings,
I find my own rhythm and my fingers begin to dance of their own accord
years of practice creating an effortless melody.