Gemotions

The dusty road stretched before Maya, endless and indifferent. She hadn’t touched her guitar in weeks, the strings gathering dust in their case, a heavy weight on her soul. The sun beat down, and the desert wind whispered through the scrub brush. A radio in a passing truck crackled to life, spewing out a familiar melody. It was her song, or rather, it was now someone else’s song, polished and slick, broadcast on the airwaves. A lump formed in her throat; a sudden, acute awareness of the empty space inside her, the canyon carved by her lack of creation. She leaned against her car, the heat radiating from the hood against her palm.