The Frequency

The Frequency The world is fire, the room is cold, A story carved in spruce and gold. I press my thumb against the string, To hear the ghost of what you sing. I do not touch your skin tonight, But catch your curve in shaded light. The bow begins its slow, dark slide— The place where pain and grace collide. You are the reverb in the hall, The shadow dancing on the wall. Each vibrato, a frantic plea, To keep your pulse alive in me. But as the final chord draws thin, I find no heart beneath the skin. The wood is hollow, the air is deep, A promise that I cannot keep. For when the bow deserts the wire, And douses out the rhythmic fire, The silence screams what I now know: You were the song, and I the bow. You are the note that fades to black, The breath that never wanders back. The music stops; the dream is through. There was no room. There was no you.