My Cardboard Balcony

Takamine Reminders by Belinda Roddie I'm not used to the throbbing in my fingertips anymore. Calluses have weakened throughout my personal history: An erosion of the temperament I've indented within my own skin. Now, I touch flesh to string and let steel sink its teeth in and hold on fast. Music's jaws will release me eventually, but deep down, I hope it doesn't stay in its burrow for too long. I feel free in the original, the Shakespearean and the lyrical. I play songs I wrote back when I was still demonstrably naive. I wonder if and when I'll write something more indicative of my present, but for the moment, let me reminisce about days in which I was a composer. Days in which I was in a ragtag band. Days in which clumsy melodies were the closest thing to godliness I ever had.

"What did you think of the roses?" "Uh...the roses?" "Yeah, the white roses. The ones Jerry got you." "Oh." Henry took a deep breath. "They were...they were a nice gesture, I guess. But..." "But?" His exhalations were louder now. "I just don't like him that way, you know? And I mean, he knows that, too. But he keeps trying. And now that Arnold's gone, I just don't wanna be with anyone right now."