I keep hearing the beginning
measure.
Four beats; quarter-note gets it.

And my fourth chakra, (the one with the
heart), all pulsating and pumping, catches
somewhere in my throat.

Play it again, I cry. And you only
see my eyes plead. You already know
the answer I seek.

The rest of the score is torture;
the best, most painful way. All my strings
are taut, plucked like blooms in night-gardens.

You reach your last note, its pitch
floating effortlessly out the door. I am
filleted.

Those slender fingers have already stopped
their perfect games. You smile, in the sudden
silence above the keys. They've already
done their damage, tearing me apart, and leaving
me begging.

Play it again...

08/17/2007

Author's Note: I have a song stuck in my head.

Posted on 08/17/2007
Copyright © 2026 Maria Kintner