Deb

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I ran into you on the street. Would you forgive me? After all, I’ve killed you. The pages of the story named for you have more than a little of your blood. Would I know you at once? You’re familiar enough. Average height, average looks, dark hair -- you’re good at blending into the crowd when you want. I think you’d stand out, though. You have that fragile look about you, that cornered, desperate look. A step to the side, glancing up with a downturned face, shoulders always a little tense. Wary of the world, comforted and tortured by the music bouncing around inside your skull. Always caught in that dance on the edge of the chasm, struggling against the force pulling towards the edge. You struggle, teetering on the brink. I call it poetic; I know it’s sadistic. In you I’ve created a creature that is very much human and also very much not, an artist to the extent that you are what you live for more than you are a self. You spin stories with your music, fables and gothic tales. You can say anything with a handful of notes. Bow to the string, you pull worlds that never existed from the belly of your violin. To me you are a work of art, a beautiful, ethereal creature. To yourself you are lost, creating a lifeline with reels and gigues. I know you better than I know myself. Would you forgive me? I hope so and I hope not. I’ve spilled your blood and you know it. I’ve set down the words and you spin within them, trapped in the cage I’ve created, indebted to me and also part of me. Do you forgive me? I forgive me. But I beg of you, my marionette. Play me a funeral march, compose me a concerto, sing me a lullaby. Love me, leave me, and set yourself free.