My bow was my survival - I have four lifelines. You are one of them, I played your name. The sound is rich, Red, some kind of beauty – The painful kind. This melody is raw; The tone sweet, cracked. It runs deeply inside me, Through my purple veins, Like caresses, or flames. And there, ‘caresses, or flames’, three words, And I am clichéd and wowed into Silent Disgust. But then there is you. I am purified in your gaze: Breath stopped, never more Alive. That word in itself is a flame – Red, White, Gold – and I feel it as my bow catches the strings; feel it as I wrap my warmth, my blood, Around this sculpture, so many miles out of my league, Until we blend, break one another, pour salt over each other’s blistered skin, Until, once more, We are whole; And your chords Ring beneath my fingertips And are airborne. Wood over Pyrite, The bass finally sings, Creating my red – But we crush softly and I feel you as a star: Only golden, And more precious and more beautiful to me than you could ever imagine, And I bathe in your gold-dust, glistening, and something like happy.