Play me like a fiddle, boy,
I'm asking you. I'm begging
for you to hurt me, crush me,
burn me the way we did.
Just play me like you know so well, the one you shoved
in the benighted depth of your old hall closet years ago; take it out and play me.
Wipe it down, scatter it's dust all around the room. You've
got some polish don't you? Make it feel beautiful. Tune
it, make it sound exactly like you want it to. Touch the
neck, run your fingers down the instrument slowly brushing
the strings seemingly by mistake. And just the way
you know how, hustle it to believe you are out of practice.
Play a few notes of rummage at
first, then just little by little, get better -- smoother.
Before you know it, the way rod glides against the
body is with remarkable ease, conducting the best song I've
ever heard. Such poetry should be shared with the
world but you just play for me, because...
because of us. A beautiful climax of a solo melts
my fears, makes my heart race, a smile I've
never smiled before.
The denouement is slowly fading as I see a future, a
forever, a man, the best fiddler I've ever heard. You
lower your rod, we are both silent. Finally, after so
long, such magic is renewed. You stare
at me, I smile. Without losing our locked eyes,
and your expression frozen to what could only
be described as anger, deeply embedded despair, and an
indescribable tiredness, you discard the fiddle. Carelessly you
toss it, retreat it into the press with heavy force, so heavily
the door shuts behind you.
You silently leave, never to return;
I am at a loss for words.