Look into my eyes and I’ll tell you who you are.
Romantic, that’s just what I am.
Can’t seem to work it out though – not that far.
I want to dream but I only can.
When you consider playing the cello, or even tuning one, it is a beautiful image to absorb,
How the player must embrace the instrument with their arms, press their breast to its back.
I first noticed that when the end pin is lowered just enough, the curve of the upper part of the cello, where the strings are tightened and tuned, curves perfectly to the shape of a forehead.
It’s so easy to rest there, and let myself smile intact.
It’s that passion that I’m missing.
I don’t think my strings are tightened the right way.
Love stories always show resting, heads touching, breathing “us”
And since I can’t have that in a day
I can’t help but make myself stop because the effort is too tedious.
Maybe it’s the passion, but I don’t think I know what I’m missing.
Pressure on the hair,
Light strokes on the neck.
Legs around the curves,
Feet on Deck.
And in the Summer, so much sweat.
Am I abusive to myself if nothing beautiful results?
It’s not for me,
the endings – it’s hard, they bruise
It’s so physical and the pressure is too much.
I don’t think I’ll try, because I’d rather not lose.
People don’t like to be around those they can’t touch.
That’s what I tell myself when I want You to stop.
I have so much to express,
my heart’s one huge mess.
It has the pointed bottom, just not the rounded top.
I have a hollow chest.
I haven’t had enough practice to play my best.
Maybe that’s why the notes echo back into me,
And then come out so lonely.