Unspoken

by Christine Timmons

I observe it in its box,
smiling slightly
and delicately touching the cold surface
of which I was once so familiar.
When was it last,
I wonder,
that I last stroked your curves
and gazed upon your dusted face?
It whispers long lost melodies
of sorrow and illness,
breathing notes of imperfection
that distinguish it from all the others.
I graze my fingers over its scars,
scratches worn into its skin
and discolored with the work of old hands.
Gently I raise it out of its grave,
cradling it in my arms
and pressing it against my chest.
I remember when it was once new,
my young eyes perplexed by its purity
and unwrinkled complexion
as I feebly attempted to match its rhythm,
its design which it had been given.
And how I broke that design,
straining its barriers until they crumbled before me
as we became close and closer still.
The world around us disappeared
while I pulled at its strings,
not faltering in my ability
to outplay the others around me.
For what good are they
when they have no compassion for their masterpiece?
It was my savior,
my companion,
and no one else stayed with me
as I cried alone,
playing with such extravagance
that once my tears were gone
I was in awe of what I,
what we,
had done.
Now where has that vigor gone,
the urgency we held for each other,
that precious feeling we shared
when we showed them how beautiful it is
to be different?
Those are nothing but memories,
before I misplaced the sheets of notes
and forgot how to play along
with its mournful strings.
And as I stand here,
the tears it once was able to sing away
now streaming down my cheeks,
I realize what I had been missing.
Watching it with renewed fixation,
the light seeming to dim
and the rest of the world melting away,
I let for the first time in too long
a question slip from my lips.

"Do you still trust me?"

 

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