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April 4, 2008
The guitar hangs on the wall, untouched now for two weeks. This is not some stuffed toy you can buy at caprice and then toss aside. The breeze whispers through strings beginning to lose their tune as the moisture rises in the apartment. She watches me from the wall, wondering what has happened, whether I will take her down again, if I have given her up for an electric in another room. Where are the strums? Where are the notes pulled from imagination? Where is the laughter? The kisses? I know what is happening. I donít know how to explain.