I sit with my guitar; the music holds me.
Siteless, muscle memory finds strings,
like old friends in a crowded room.

Notes worry my ears,
tones tease and cant,
sound loosening
into something swimmable.

Air, a borrowed medium,
through which vibrations breathe—
waves breaking, unseen,
on taut skin drumheads.

I pluck; the neck resists my touch,
rhythm passing hand to wood to steel.
Sound doesn’t move—
it is movement.

Only six strings, countless doors:
tears coaxed out, fingers picking,
a vision struck against sandpaper—
ignited, abrasive, unforgettable.

Jimi felt all this.
Not in his hands.
Inside.

Deeper.