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.
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