The Soloist

Our existence,
the one of he and I,
is only but a vocal aneurysm-
a harmony in discord.

Have you allowed your observance to grow cold upon me?

The embedded scratches on wallpaper
consume the sound of decadence,
but I am unabashed,
because it is growing!
Within me,
this gentle ballad is echoing!

How I long for you,
Sweet Madrigal,
to steady your thaws
across my pursed lips-
to sharpen the broken rhythms,
and repair the punctured notes,
until I am fully rooted- the gypsy within me

and I can't help that i come apart,
feeling the shiver's vibration
before he learns of its creation-
but you know, as I know,
that I am no one's only bride.

The music stops...

Have you abandoned me?

For I can no longer hear the tentativeness of your cry.

by April Michelle Wolverton

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