She hangs on the wall

in the lovely wooden cradle

He bought for their anniversary,

untouched now

for over two weeks.

 

This is not some decoration

He bought for his wall. 

She had meaning for him. 

She was not some toy

bought at caprice

to be tossed aside.

 

The breeze whispers through strings

beginning to lose their tune

as the moisture rises in the apartment.

He can hear this. 

She knows He can hear her.

His ears are that sensitive to Her

He knows Her every nuance.

 

She watches him from the wall,

wondering what has happened,

When will He take her in his arms again?

Has He given her up for the electric

She knows He keeps in the bedroom?

He won’t look at her when He comes in. 

She knows He sees Her. 

 

Where are the strums?

Where are the notes pulled from imagination?

The longing spaces between those notes? 

Where is the laughter?

The sudden kisses across her groin?