The Cradle

It had been a difficult day. I came home feeling tired, drained. As if I had been constantly running into a brick wall and knocking myself out all day. So, I went to my haven. My refuge. Me, my guitar, and the sky. The night was warm. Didnt feel like playing. The notes sounded flat and dead as I strummed. Even they seemed uninterested. I tried to play something all the way through but it was a half hearted effort.

That was how I felt. Half hearted.

I rested my head in the cradle of the guitars curve, like a womans waist, and plucked absently at the strings. When I looked up, it was nearly dark. The street lights bathed everything in orange. Cars and trucks hissed by intermittently on the freeway.

The silhouette of some bird was high in the trees, listening to my half hearted prayer. My melancholy notes rising into the dark with his.