String Theory

Puppetry:
I shake my limbs to the music
like a manic ape, scared senseless.
Her ghost sits across the room
in a secluded corner.
The weight of her presence
drowns the beats and the dull ache.
 
Her Solo Performance:
I drag my frame across the cold mosaic,
assaulted by shame and stink.
She beckons me,
holds me by the nape of my neck,
and strokes my bruised back
like she’s playing the cello.
 
Tethered Cords:
I relive the horrors of those final seconds
in the overpowering stillness of the night;
glimpses of her
through the shattered glass,
fragments of her
through the shattered memory.
 
Haunting:
I close my eyes, sometimes forcefully,
sometimes in silent resignation.
Her laughter cuts deeply,
and her whispers
dance on the flimsy strings 
of my existence.