It’s under his bed. He knows it’s there.
He’ll duck down, knees against the hard carpet. The outline of a shadow teases him. Fingers reach, arm stretches, breaths are choked off from the effort.
No matter how hard he tries, he can never reach it. Not even the softest touch can be made.
He’s tried moving the bed away from the wall, but it’s too heavy. It won’t budge.
Sometimes he’ll perch himself on the bed and imagine it in his lap. It’s almost like torture. All the songs in his chest, the words on his tongue, the chords ready to leak from his fingertips.
He’s never frustrated. Not angry. He settles with resignation. This is just the way it is.
At least he know’s it’s there. It’s always going to be there. Just out of reach.
He’ll never get closer. He’ll never get what he wants.