Traces He Left // by Gray O. (April 2018)

His hands are clenched
To the strings of me,
Playing me
As one would an instrument.

The music I make
Is pained,
My melody,
Measures of strained grief.

Cries torn from my throat,
The crescendo.
He sways with my sorrow,
His fingers plucking at scorned flesh.

And yet, when the song ends
I cannot hope but wish
That I might play the
Same again,
And again.

Until my strings are splayed
And my bow worn,
By the careful movements of a hand,
That did not possess the ability to compose.