G Sharp 7
Left slack at the edge of the violin,
an afterthought of gut and wire,
waiting for the bow that never descends.
Every note passes overhead
like birds stitching the sky.
The hollow body drinks their chorus,
yet no song grows inside this wood.
Ears open in the varnish,
dark mouths swallowing everything unfinished—
a concerto of failures,
a catalogue of unsung hours.
Different, always different,
not melody but margin,
not hand but handle.
Still the silence hums,
a taut ghost trembling
whenever others are touched.
What music it might have been
clings like rosin to the air,
faint, impossible,
vanishing before it begins.
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