A Music Box and Memories

On a cobblestone street, cracked and ill-repaired, I rifle antique shops for a jeweled music box to cradle my empty locket. I wish to drop it in a velvet corner one tear at a time. If I find an heirloom with a bittersweet story, its own tragic history, my sorrow may lighten within the confines of its space. If I were rich, I would live curled up on the satin lining of a music box coupled with my locket, and with every tender lift of its lid, I would rise in graceful dance. My restless nights shall one day sleep in rhythmic breath. My flailing heart shall tether itself to heaven. I found a music box today, but alas, it would not play. Without the song, the story dies. Perhaps, today’s fruitless search will guide me to my hope, my treasure. If I were rich, I would live in a Viennese music box, a timeless ballerina twirling for you alone, my love. At a local pub, I sit alone in a corner sipping seltzer and trying to ignore your husky voice rising from a half-empty glass. Festive bubbles burst, sounding off before the tap tap tap of the conductor's baton. I close my eyes to find you laughing as you sing and dance in the corners of my mind. You are the part of me set free. I am frozen in hushed memories. I twirl my hair to distract me from all the darkness I see, fingers determined to soothe my daydreams. My spirit has weakened between fake smiles and faded time. I pry thoughts from a swirling head, quench my angst, ignore faces of strangers. It’s easier to whitewash the world in my despair, than to see its colors. I wear my grief like a turtleneck sweater. I let it keep me warm when winter lingers to bullet spring with sleet. When did I fall into a dark corner? I tripped on a crack in the cobblestone today, skinned my knee, looked up to see you smiling down at me. If I were rich, I'd fly to Vienna, live in a ballet slipper at Konzerthaus forever. I hear your voice, it's smashing glass, a cacophony of howls, metal on metal, a melodic chaos of heroics and blood. It fills my corners. I wonder - did you scream in your last moments or slip beneath the drop cloth you carefully lay with less than a thud? In a hush of onlookers, do-gooders, did your eyes widen or fall? If only I could live in the corner of a jeweled music box, a ballerina dancing for you, the world might spin in a hush. If only I were rich, I would escape. Written 11/14/15, revised 3/19/17 for In the Corner Contest