In his subtle corner of the room
his long, cold and calloused fingers 

find the keyboard’s weak spots 

and tortures for the information
he so deliciously deserves. 

Ties brass-knuckle-knot glissandos
to a capella staffs to 

pound the Polyphonic Victim 

to a Veritable Pulp. 

The sheet music singed to
his eyelids arms him with enough
artillary to shoot the fermata from it’s lofty perch, 

Tumbling through accidentals far enough
for him to settle in the comfort of a copyright
in the comfort of an echoey aftermath. 

and I do not love him.
and he does not love me. 

but I cringe from beauty 

and because my hands are 

too big 

for my 

body. 

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