two acoustics occupy a corner:
hers leaning into his
both worn at the third fret, years of jamming together
his strings curling in all four directions of a compass, like the hair on his face
her's trimmed and fashionable, like the styles in her closet
and behind the stringed instruments, mountains
still pushing up, up, for millions of years
with an ocean out of sight, somewhere behind, but always there
and the guitars cuddle on the stand in their corner of the room
and the couple cuddles on the couch in their corner of time
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