I bought a used acoustic guitar from a grimy
pawn shop coming down highway 1 yesterday.
I own a fake Fender.
Her name is Lucy and she's beautiful.
She makes due with my poorly trained hands
strumming her strings the wrong way.
She sings sweet, the only two cords I know.
It was around exit 552,
That I began to miss you again.
So instead of calling you to rehash painful wounds,
Lucy kept me company as I sat barefoot in the sand.
On that forgotten California coast last night.
Her smooth wooden body held my hands, keeping them busy.
I was no longer empty. My lap was full of music.
I had something to distract my heart from loneliness.
And there in that solitary second the waves began
to make my sorrows into something to sing about.
My busy brain feels hushed for a moment.
Letting in the simple sound of a single tune.
I can hear the rhythm coming from me.
I am here... only here.
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