I love you. You and your beautiful voice; the way you sing to me, in the middle of the night. Sending tingles up my spine and subtle vibrations as you hum the glory that lies within you. I could listen to you endlessly, never tiring. We were made for each other, the accompaniment to all my songs.
That slender neck of yours, elegant and exquisite, will always have my fingers gliding up and down it. Making you come alive, with crooning sounds and gentle squeaks. No untoward sounds, guttural or animalistic, because that would be so unladylike, and you must always carry yourself in the exaltation deserving your fabulosity.
No-one ever talks about the head, but it would be a crime if I ignored yours. The crown of your entire assemblage, where the tiny gears twitch and interlink to control all your inner workings, leaving all in awe of your capabilities. Simply phenomenal, they say, that such a small being can achieve so much, be so domineering. I would gently caress your head too, if only to know what gems you hold inside, what intricacies and schema you so dearly and steadily protect.
But if there’s one spot on your amazingly crafted body that I will never leave, that my arms have made their home, which seems crafted specifically for me to physically conjoin myself to: your slender hips. Brilliant is the title of your crafter, for transposing the very essence of femininity onto you. I call you the perfect specimen, ignoring the fear of claims of objectifying you. You are actually just an object though *shrugs*.
And blessed is the fruit of your womb. From the holistically crafted inner chambers of your being arises your fruit, out to glorify and amaze and charm and impose. Majestic, calm, intimidating, flirty, energetic and nonchalant; the emotions you carry with you are innumerable.
That is why your six strings shall forever be exalted, for their simplicity and latent ability.
For your hard exterior that encases the cavernous chamber that amplifies your brilliance, giving birth to such beautiful sound.
To the ordinary eye, you’re just vanished wood and parallel lengths of wire; nothing to crow about. But to the hands that strum you, the arms that hold you, the fingers that grip your frets, you’re a divine beauty, a work of art. A guitar.