He plucks the strings of her harp-
a broken chord; mysterious, unfamiliar,
vulnerable.
He was not delicate; his touch graceless.
From faultless to fault
only takes a moment.
And now?
The melody lingers on the stroke of the past,
whilst the next note takes its turn-
mistakes manifest.
Unable to comprehend the future,
an unfinished harmony, an imperfect cadence-
what next?
The ensuing note is slumped...
Waiting-
overcome by passion,
the strings are plucked so hard
they break-
into a chromatic mess.
