That Same Ole Song

She watched him pluck the strings. His fingers up and down the frets of her spine, pulling out notes and moans from deep within the cavity of her hollowed-out chest. Apollo’s golden lyre lulling the muses beyond their sensibilities. Grooves of passion causing a riff and changing his tune. Needing space like air. The Pied Piper’s pitch filling the acoustics in the room. The arpeggio scaffolding and bending, burning the bridge and lacing the capo around her neck, causing her to fall flat. Vibrato measured in octaves and picked over. Metronomic dissonance clashing through their progression Until the blue notes scaled her back into a solo improvisation.