running through her spine,
up to her brain,
down through her heart.
He plays them softly at first, a delicate strumming--
his hands still sweet, his fingertips intricate
between her strings.
The ones that make up her body,
veins, arteries, the tissue.
He plays them to a vinyl--
they get lost in the euphoria.
But those strings don’t belong to him--
they are her.
He tunes her finely though,
to himself.
The strings that were hers
become his,
held captive by fingertips.
So he played, he played.