my heartstrings twang like the broken harp
lays dust covered in the scary cellar.
she’s tired, but restless
once - the boy with rose fingertips plucked these strings.
he’d come creeping, in navy nighttime
tippy toeing on pads of turpentine
to let the right ones be.
as the floorboards shook so did her strings
with glee they sang of sweet pickenings.
whenst the light beam came he snuck through the stars.
moonlight shone bright in depths of the dark.
o joy what joy sweet company brings her
united in blood, sweet flesh come betweath her
a harmony like silk woven loud in the rain,
rose gold touch her neck to become one again.
as the tune draws nearer it’s end
harp’s strings pull weaker, snapping and bend
knowing it’s nigh she prolongs his stay
hoping that caution means slower to play.
the player plucks harder, taking no notice,
till the tension SNAPS pulling his focus.
his heartstrings ache with unfamiliar
cadence.
blue with confusion cover his face,
ascending the stairs he creeps back to place.
she lay down deep in the scary cellar.
bleeding for attention.
