the
coy instant of darkness when
the
crickets stop chirping
seems
so full of
something
you
can't help but wonder if
violins
can form holy symphonies of their own accord
this
wonderment is betrayed
by
remembering the violinist
whose
virginity you stole and
quickly
wishing for dawn like you hope she wasn't
things
cease to obey the bounds of reason
as
you expand outward from a moment of percussion
you
wonder if she heard horns.
she
probably didn't hear horns.
i
hope she didn't hear violins.
that
moment shouldn't ruin darkness for anyone.
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