Tugging at chords, writing verses.
We refrained and repeated,
arranged and rearranged.
We wrote accidentals on purpose,
a constant changing of keys.
Fine tuning each other,
playing in perfect pitch. Bars every
few beats drawn and erased—
finding when best to take a breath.
Isn’t it ironic, strings plucked on stage
All I hear is discord and chaos,
missing melodies that mend.
So we wrote symphonies, you and I,
mastering the music. Those secret
songs ravaged reality, crafting a
perfect world between only our fingers.
And finishing with the perfect cadence,
we played a sequence of chords.
Not repeating this time— a clean cutoff.
Stilled strings and silent voices.