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Rated: E · Poetry · Romance/Love · #2037944
Love can be a cruel muse but sound so harmonic
My Heart strings
She plays,
In echoing Melody.

My Heart Strings
She plays.

Day to Day
Week to Week
Month to Month.

Beethoven had the 5th.
Mozart the 3rd.
She has my First and Second.

From the time the sun peaks
Over the edge of horizon,
To the last drop of sunlight to touch her hands
She plays.

She plucks with a delicate finger
The warmth of her skin lasting until,
The sharp and swift pluck of her nail.

I am deaf to the tone she plays.

For all I hear are the vibrations
From the butterflies fluttering
In my stomach.

The white noise inside my head
Is faded.
Until all I hear is her.

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