My Violin
glares from its case,
daring me to play
that song I loved.
Unable to touch it-
unable to play it-
knowing my calluses have gone away
from years of infrequent playing.
Each string a reminder of what
I used to be, how I used to play.
Every medal accompanying it
hidden from sight. The soft
twang of the A string whispers
“I miss you” as it permeates the room.
“The acoustics are perfect,”
it seems to say urgently,
simply begging for the love
and attention it once received.
My violin, a long-loved
possession, now a bitter
reminder of skill and patience
that has gone with the years.
0 comments