How you gently caress
each string
in your only dress
under his wing.

I've stopped working,
caring.
Failure is always lurking,
daring
what I never could.

My center, made of wood,
when burns
never returns.
You're left with ashes.

Your eyelashes,
your fingers,
all created lingers
and I never know for sure.

I guess that's how you lure
one man or another,
one of them being me,
as I see, you could be
the mother, bearing.

So I can revive caring
as an endless motion
in my wooden guts, my core.
You, bearing, three or four
as the door shuts
and you leave your instrument
behind.