your my strings
Your voice resonates like an echo,
when the shadows no longer dance
leaving no comfort in Plato’s cave.
Where dreams are killed by resolutions,
crushed and suffocated as a thirsty stone.
The song, your song, with the notes, your notes
written in the margins as you practice
I feel your voice pluck the strings as you sing,
as I am reminded of the tortured instrument,
the violin you have forgotten in the attic.
I am the the reference in every line,
but the song you no longer sing.