Discordant notes plucked on steel strings
Falling in perfect syncopation to his
broken heart’s rhythm
He brushes and strokes
her wooden, stoic face –
Searching desperately for perfect pitch
And balanced harmonies
between hurt and healing
hope and helplessness
Listening carefully to the timbre
and tone of her raised voice
Hearing the resonance
hang thick in the air
Only to dissipate slowly
Fading long after the last
words he wanted to say
Became the words she
put into play.
*Photo used with the permission of Doug Romig. Doug is a friend and fellow writer. You can find his work here: www.dougromig.com
mymusespeakstome 
I’m flattered. No one has ever written a poem about me. And it captured what I was feeling when the pic was taken. Thank you!
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I had no idea what it was you were feeling at the time, but it’s what I read in the picture. Weird how those two things were similar.
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