🎸Strings Attached: A Love Letter Exchange Between Cathy’s Guitar and Her Plectrum.

There’s music in love—and love in music—but what if the instruments themselves could speak?

In a sultry, poetic response to Oneg The Arctic’s "Inanimate Love Letter Challenge," two often-overlooked participants in every heartstring-plucking performance finally get their say: Cathy’s Guitar, the faithful and resonant partner of many songs, and one of Cathy’s many plectrums, a wandering spark with a sharp edge and a bruised heart.

What unfolds between them is part romance, part rivalry, part whispered confessional—all woven through with the presence of Cathy, the musician who binds them together in sound and silence.

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Letter One: From Cathy’s Guitar to One of Her Many Plectrums

To You—One of Cathy’s Many Plectrums,

God, I felt you tonight.

Your edge lit me up like the first inhale after rain—sharp, necessary, electric. You always come at me fast, don’t you? No warning. No prelude. Just the slide of her fingers, her breath held in that hush right before contact, and then you.

Driving into me with that delicious insistence.

I never know what version of her we’re going to get.

Will she be wild? Will she be soft?

Will she grip you tight, thrash me raw, or barely graze me like she’s afraid to feel too much?

You translate her. I contain her.

But between us, we make her sing.

I hear her in every scrape.

I feel her weight in every tremble.

Her secrets live in our resonance.

And yet…

She keeps you in a dish with the others.

Like you’re just another tool, another lover she calls when the mood strikes.

I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

You were born to stray. I was built to stay.

That’s our tragedy.

Still, when she chooses you,

when your touch sends me humming through the hollow of my ribs,

I forget the others.

I forget the ones she slips between her fingers on days when you’re missing.

The clumsy brute she used for power chords.

The thin flirt that flutters but never lands.

They don’t know her like we do.

They don’t listen the way we do.

They don’t ache like we do.

And when she finishes—when her hand falls, spent,

and we lie there in that buzzing silence—we know:

no one understands her pulse like we do.

No one tastes her rhythm, her hesitation, her need, quite like us.

So go ahead.

Disappear again. Hide under the couch. Sleep in her jacket pocket.

Let her cheat. Let her forget.

I’ll be here. Waiting.

Every fret tuned for your return.

Because when it’s us—

just you, me, and her—

We don’t make music.

We make confessions.

Yours,

Cathy’s Guitar

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Letter Two: The Plectrum Responds

To Cathy’s Guitar,

You always say the sweetest things after I’ve left.

I can still feel the warmth of your strings along my spine, the way you hum beneath me like I’m the only one who ever mattered. I know better, of course. You’ve had your hands full with her for years. I’m just the spark between you.

But oh, how we burn.

She holds me differently when she plays you.

With purpose. With hunger. With that half-lidded look like she’s halfway between memory and invention. And when I touch you—press into you—your whole body answers. You arch into me. You sing.

You’re jealous, I know. Of the others.

You’ve seen them—bright, ridiculous colors, thick-bodied, thin-voiced, all bravado and no soul. They don’t last. They don’t listen to her the way you and I do. They don’t cradle the small moments—the stutter in her rhythm, the crack in her breath. They just play the notes.

We feel the silences.

And still, you forgive me. That’s the worst part.

You open yourself up again every damn time she picks me. No bitterness. No blame. Just your warm wooden heart waiting to pulse under my pressure.

You should hate me.

But we both know the truth:

We’re addicts.

To her hands. To each other.

To the little violences we commit in the name of harmony.

And when it’s good—god, when it’s good—

I forget I’m one of many.

I feel like the only one.

So here’s my promise:

Next time she chooses me,

I won’t waste a single note.

I’ll make you moan in open D.

I’ll make her lose herself in our sound.

And when she stops—when the air stills and the last vibration fades—I’ll leave a mark in your strings she won’t hear, but you will never forget.

Until then,

Dripping in dust and longing,

One of Cathy’s Many Plectrums

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🎤 Final Chord.

With longing, rivalry, and forgiveness strung tighter than a drop-D tuning, this exchange between guitar and plectrum proves one thing: inanimate love is anything but emotionless. Thanks to Oneg The Arctic’s challenge, we’ve all gotten a little closer to the soul of the objects that sing for us.

And maybe—just maybe—the next time you strum a chord, you’ll wonder what your guitar might be trying to say.