how I dream of you. I never miss a beat. The spirit of you swells inside of me, devouring my heart and pulling me down, down, into your love. And your hands are like the pianist's fingers upon the keys, the way you draw the music from my soul. And I beg you to play me, to wear down my keys.
But you've let me grow dusty. You never even bothered to draw the cover over my keys. I'm left in this small room, my only friends, the moon and the sun that glint off of my ebony shell. These friends, though loyal, fail to play me as you do. And I desire your skill.
Unfortunately, my lovely, you've taken up the violin.
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