Strings

You play your song well
Expertly, your fingers manipulate
The tiniest, most delicate
Strings of my heart
If you carelessly break one
Who is to know but the instrument?

Your music is my sigh
My melancholy moods
The thoughts of you
That cannot be shaken
From a tortured,
Enraptured mind

What would happen, were I
To stay your hand
And bring it to my lips?
Can I touch your strings?
Can I caress them and
Let you hear the melody they might hold?

It’s unwitting, though
This song you make
You know not that you hold the tool
You know not that you pluck the strings
And that your sure touch
Is the making and undoing of me

So, to interrupt it
With my trembling fingers
Which so long to explore your every chord
Would be to destroy the beautiful pain,
The unknowing, unwanting perfection
As you snap the string in your grasp