Your old violins,
a long black overcoat that lines your features
your imaginative ways to make me smile
a turban wrapped to heat your bald head in the winter hours
your new cigars
smoking breaks between the instruments and the music
always sweet,
the exchange of note to voice, of symbols to music
your hands and fingers
made razor sharp by the incision of strings
Nowadays, your violin weeps
for another woman while all I can do is hold to memory
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