I open like a book but for reading, I have keys but no lock I work when you tap, sleep when you shut I travel with you, yet stay on your lap.

Frets I have many, but worries are none. I’ve got a waist and a neck, but no belt or hat. Give a pluck and I can make you a star, Like BB and Carlos, Brittany, and Jack.

A sheathe, holding which you entrust to your head, its softness on softness can be measured in threads. Obtained in a set, with a covering spread. You will meet it tonight, when you’re ready for bed.

A mirror, made of varied hues But only those the makers choose A space designed to trap a muse And once its soul is captured there Imprisoned, hanging in the air Then people pay to come and stare What am I

I am taken before I exist, Yet I appear after I’m done. You never see me happening, Only where I’ve been and gone. What am I?