You play my heart like a tense violin;
bent, twisted, strung off a step and a half below the bar,
with sweat dripping from the sides of cracked wood,
slipping and snapping from the pressure pushed
by saccharin fingers, salty to my own tongue.
Yet the sound waves pass unheard,
floating to and from thick, dense, atmosphere
hitting walls here and there,
returning to the empty orifice,
where your fingers are so tightly pressed.
I wish you would let go
and just let the music pass.
