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bittersweet symphony

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i. past; 

i fell in love

with you

like the way

that violinists play their instruments.

you were the bow,

and i was the string,

and you played me

oh-so-melodiously.

with each pizzicato,

you plucked

and tugged

on the taut strings

in my heart -

in an attempt

to draw something out

of the cold shell that I was -

the cold shell that I am.

but with each draw of the bow,

you left marks

on me -

in me -

that would not go away

until I was thoroughly cleaned

with something softer

than you had been on me.

every time you played me,

i was to look forward

to these fleeting moments

of tranquility

and safety.

even the conductor

with his tutti

could not synchronise

our songs.

then came the day

that you found another,

and i was left in a box

in your attic,

thrown away

and replaced.

the dust gathered

and i was not in tune anymore.

the person that i was

became a person i loathed,

and my melodious songs

became distant memories.

 

ii. present;

and there is

a tremolo

growing in forte

in my heart

(but how

do i know

he loves me?)

and i don’t know

how to stop it.

(and how 

do i know

he cares?)

but i do not

reckon that

this is a bad thing

for i have

never felt

any more alive

than in this moment

of melodies -

 

of choruses -

and for once

in my life

i can harmonise

with the world

all around me. 

no longer 

am i 

a soloist. 

i am part of 

the symphony.




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