Death by Violin

He played his violin with the passion of a fanatic,

Cutting through the strings with a swipe of the bow,

The agony and pleasure resounded on his face,

As his fingers shivered on the edge of the row.

I cried, I shed tears at the music,

I could feel their saltiness at the tip of my tongue,

I could see his music eclipse my body,

I could sense its quelling grasp on my lung.

Every lick he played on its neck was on mine,

Every wisp on my ear was a play on its tone

It was music I heard, for I so loved him,

When the bow was his sword,

And its neck,

My own.

Decadence

She saw his greatness in everything that surrounded him and her, which basically meant that she saw his greatness in everything. She wanted him, but she was also scared of the all-consuming nature of her respect for him. How could she want, and hence hope to achieve, the very thing she knew was her unreachable ideal?

She thought of this day after day. Her all-consuming respect for him slowly transitioned inward, delipidating her like a flesh-eating bacteria, sucking her existence into the void of her, or rather his being. It drove her mad. She stopped eating, drinking, sleeping.

She loved him so much that she wore herself off.

Rather, she loved him so much that she wore her love off.

And then he died, but she had already been too dead to notice.

Unfinished

The softness of the velvet peeked unto my fingers and I knew that I loved that feeling.

I knew I would spend days caressing its flesh and inhaling its warmth.

I knew I would brush my toes against the bottom and tease myself into loving it even more.

I knew I would strip naked so that every curve of my body pranced in its fiber.

I knew I would bury my face in its folds and cry my worries out,

Only to know that it will absorb my tears and shower me with its softness.

But alas, I did not know that one day, it would rain,

And you would walk into my life.