The evening is mine, and yet not.
A melody across the wall, born on the strings of a guitar
Is eating into my silence. Yes!

My violin waits.

Sometimes it takes a bit of silence, a pinch of patience;
To hear it out before you let it out.
It is music - alright - but it doesn't sing the notes my violin longs for.

The guitar breaks into arpeggios and a cascade of notes fill me up;
but the bass feels more like an unwanted knock on the doors of my ears -
An intrusion, A stabbing knife ripping through the canvas of silence.
I know! I know, it is a beautiful melody, but it is not mine -
I haven't felt my violin through the day and I long for my solitary rendezvous;
To hear my violin sing, nay, talk to me.

My violin waits.

How strange that I should ever cringe at music,
And yet, I am unable to contain the welling frustration -
A desire to drown whatever is coming piercing through the walls into my room
To decimate it till nothing of it remains - not a spec, not a whisper
Till all is Silent

My violin still waits.