Every day, he takes her into his arms,
To soothe her inherent frets.
Her warped body sits atop his lap
While words form in his mouth,
Soft whispers of melody.
His left hand explores her neck
To find just the right spot, his other hand
Strokes slowly, tenderly
Against the tension.
The first movement is always the same-
A refrain of familiarity,
Prelude to a hymn not yet written.
His strokes open gently,
Building her rhythmic moans to a forte.
He’ll work her all night,
Hammer-on, pull-off.
Her pitch intensifying
Beyond measurable scales.
The tempo nears a climax,
They reach harmony in unison,
Before he mutes her with his palm,
Repressing a broken chord.
Never ceasing to comply,
Her hollow frame supports him.
She consents to being strung along,
As little by little, he writes a song.