I want you to play me like a violin.I want you to string my cords, to caress my timber and make music with me.I want you to play me until your fingers feel numb, and to cherish and love me and put me in a large wooden case. Carry me around with you wherever you go, and stop at the train station to play me. People will be shocked at how good you are at playing (with?) me, but will pay nonetheless, because no one can do it like you.I want you to pluck my cords when I’m old and replace them with new ones, and play me like you did the first time.I want you to climax at the sound of a flautando done with grace, and then we’ll finish our music in terms of heavy staccato, tangled between your fingers and my strings, between the sheets of paper adorned with musical notes, and the half-broken bow forgotten in a corner.I want my timber of wood to grow with your timber of voice, and as our sounds evolve, we’ll make better music together than any Stradivarius and its master could. We’ll be like one, your nimble fingers holding my bow with grace, making me gasp a grave do minor, ending with a slight tremolo, then, as your wrist resumes its pace, my strings shall wail in a hushed bemol.I want you to make my music sound the best, and make it yours.I want you to carve your name on the side of my long neck, and pass your fingers over my bridge in reconnaissance, to rest upon the chin piece. Lift me up, bring me to your chin and support me to your shoulder, and caress my strings like you always do.
I want you to play me like a violin.
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