To her, it was playing a violin,

Sweet sinews like stretched strings

And the bow ready in her grasp.

The cascading melodies she made

Part serenade,

Part nocturne.

 

To him, it was a ceaseless rhythm.

Each drip was a tap on the snare drums

And the trails left behind were a cruise

Down a ride cymbal—

Even if the instrument was really

Just the bathroom’s porcelain sink.

 

To everyone else,

Their song was a red elegy

Recorded on the staff

Note by hand-carved note.

 

But to them

It was simply making music.

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