Written by Anonymous
I strum quiet chords in the dark,
holding your arcus curves as though we’re welded.
But when I tap your ribs, cold, metal, and hard,
you let out dull gold and violet.
Brought to my mouth and blown clear,
I watch your final sighs in the air,
But when I crouch my bow on your frame,
Your scent works like resinous hair.
I love too, to thread fingers up your ivory, through your ebony
waves – despite the shortcomings in my melody.
I improvise imperfectly in my expiring innocence;
you still smile fine in the dissonance.
And when I pluck the string of this electrical synth,
a mid drone rises to die on the wind.
I love pressing the switch on this particular thing;
that is, I love to turn you on.
And when the night’s old, the band lies down,
and my efforts give way to repose;
and though my arms rest around you now,
I give you back to yourself, because:
I shall always prefer what you compose,
than that from my control. This one’s best
tones are of course her own. (Though I think
she likes, too, what I from her divulged.)
