A guitar neck just feels
like more of my nerve-drunk hand.
The strings burn graves
into my dead fingertips.
The volume knob turned too far
spikes my fear of exposure.
If I sound insecure to others
about how it feels to play,
it is because these raging nerves
are what I know of my hands lately,
and lately my guitar is where they go
to fail and (soon enough) to die.
The pain on the day after:
history informing the future.
Music comes from
the place between those things.
All my apologies flow
from how every broken arpeggio
climbs a ladder leading
to a day when I will have to stop
all of this, or when I am
at last stopped.
Till then, though?
Till then, I am yours.
Dark Matter 
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