I bite my lips, then press my fingers to them, enjoying the sting of their salty touch.
Bittersweet, melancholy, a fading touch.
The stinging fingertips as you clench the strings of a guitar with one hand, holding as tightly as you can, sliding your fingers close to the frets in hope of better reverberations.
The suffering pain is slowly replaced by the numbness of callouses.
And the clumsily strummed chords are even slower replaced by invoking melodies.
But the guitar is not mine.
It belongs to someone that I don't really know.
The piano is more mine than most else, though.
But still not completely mine.
The only things that really belong to me are my words.
Sometimes crisp, sometimes flowing.
But they are all mine.
They fill in the blanks that the piano can't.
Because I cannot create on the piano.
And even though it may help to siphon my pain, it is never completely mine.
Only my words are.
They are always with me, and they are mine.