Guitarists' Language

I tell you my secrets through the hums Of buzzing, stringed bees The rumblings of my thumb I pretend to play it all with ease My memories seem to wane But my fingers know their place A screech, a murmur, a twang Suffocating, sweet, in our airy space What words I cannot find, What I cannot seem to say, Are the things I hope remind Us of the songs that make us sway Mahogany and copper speak In softer languages than I ever could So I’ll strum until my wrist is weak Until we’ve both been understood