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“A poet is a man who puts up a ladder to a star and climbs it while playing a violin.”

-Edmond de Goncourt

            I’m running out of these poetic fillers from my past, these cloggers of space with discordant, inapplicable nonsense. And, while I want to promise that this will be the last, this ten-month-old ode to a dusty violin (spoiler alert…), it will not be.

Old Friend

She looked just like she did three years ago,

Just like the day when you put her away

from your mind and went onto “better things.”

The day the music stopped.

Her red blushing skin still curves its way around

your fingered memories of ten years.

The only thing different is her voice:

discordant,

out-of-tune and

out-of-place.

It’s strangely satisfying, though, knowing that

your absence in her life affected her

some how.

And so with a sigh, you'll just close the

case, leaving the violin glistening in the dark mustiness,

and the music echoing between walls of

plastic and faux-leather.