She sleeps in her maple wood bed, battered and scared,
under her blanket of velvet red. The pieces of her bonded
together. Recalling his caress on her curves as he moved,
she wakes and leaves the bridge of driftwood.
It bows from the pressure of her, weighing it down. Yet it holds—
barely. Gathering dust,
numberless shades shifting as the fading light grazes
her golden hair. She gazed at her reflection in the clear glass lake,
watched as he struck her strings. The smell of rosin burnt
the air as they danced. Detached, with separate strokes.
High-strung, rhythm and ricochet. His bow on the strings tugging at her heart
and he played her soul until she was spent.
Thank you for reading,
(Side image by Richard Young)