Bleeding fingers

I tried to pluck out a mournful tune, I was feeling a bit melancholy - but it jarred. The chords sounded too metallic, had too much copper in them, too much iron. I left the plectrum and used just my fingers - the notes were muted, like I was playing underwater.
I used my teeth, but that made my head vibrate so I soon stopped.
I had to quit for a while, smoke some fags and listen to Johhny Cash, Thom Yorke, Simon Love and others who inspire me. Their music made me awfully depressed for a while, thinking I could never be that good, then my Mam appeared in my head: telling me off for being so defeatist. I remembered learning the piano, and how quickly the confusing landscape of white valleys and black mountains soon became home.
I picked the guitar up by the neck, daring it, throttling it, and we made some music. Easy music to begin with, folky songs that sounded a bit jerky at the start - God knows I'm not Joni Mitchell. We will get better, the better we get to know each other. Every day we learn something new about the other. Just last night I massaged her blue shoulders and coaxed a small melody out of her, escaping like bindweed through brambles.

We're okay, we're getting there. I see the scope for love.