Rough fingers spread across the silky surface slowly, the texture euphoric against the simple shape of prints. Meaty hands grasp the neck, and sinking fingers press against the chords tightly. It's warm. It feel like home. Sliding the other palm across the body once more, I grasp the bow sweetly. There is an aching in my mind, in my heart, to strum the bow across the strings of, what feels to be, my second arm. I wish to create a symphony of sound, both beautiful and majestic to the world. A faithful longing for harmony is churning beneath my skin, and blisters of music need to be made to let history and memorization flow into me. I am trapped within my own self.

Turning, I look at the black case, covered with cheap cloth, and molded to fit the wooden masterpiece I clung to so desperately. I close my eyes and imagine the serenity, the pure bliss of each set of horse hair gliding across each other. My hand would move up and down the neck to change notes, to make wonderful, fantastic, enchanting music. But my head is empty, and the rhythms and beats escape me. What is an 'A?' Where should I place my fingertips for a F sharp? What next? And now? So many questions floating around my scalp, getting caught in my tendrils of brown matted hair. My gaze shifts to a mirror in front of me, and I see how out of place I look next to the beauty sitting atop my shoulder. So.. unfit I seem for the enchantment I wish to achieve.

I sigh. To hold the beauty of an ember in my hand is to burn my identity away from myself. I was playing with fire, but strangely I feared not what would come of my interest in this wonderful creation. I place the instrument gently back into place, locking the bow in as well. Someday, I will learn to play. Someday I will enchant your eyes with my quick fleeting strums across the strings, and the beautiful harmony escaping from that magical creation. Tomorrow, will come, and some tomorrow after I will learn. But for now I only grasp the candle that holds my most precious flame, careful to barely breathe, lest it be gone with a wisp of smoky desires.