It is late, morning is closer than evening. Sleep has avoided me once more. I wander the house in slippers and robe. My mind chewing on last night’s party talk. I walk to your room, pull the chain of a small green banker’s lamp. A warm light fills the corner where you are resting. You are as quiet as a butterfly in flight. My first impulse is to pick you up. Instead, I sit in an over- stuffed couch and admire you.
I envy your elegance and simplicity. I love how your long slender neck is worn to a velvet smoothness from our decades-long relationship. Your narrow waist, full hips and slightly bellowed back allow your sound to resonate.
Your warm sensual mahogany figure rests perfectly in my lap. A reminder of a dark-skinned woman we shared in Guatemala. Your fragrance is earthy, a hint of the Brazilian forest still emanates from your fibers. You will always be part of the rain forest, just as I am part of the city.
Six gold tuning keys, their patina worn thin by use, are neatly placed on your scalloped head. Your sound hole, encircled by tiny, intricate, hand painted jungle birds has faded. Your age has begun to show, just as mine. A bit of yellowing, a small crack, part of your finish worn thin from the rhythmic brush of my hand. My touch has softened, your sound has mellowed. We have grown old together. I may be foolish to think of you this way, old friend, traveling companion, confident, that is the price paid by a romantic.