cello.

here, in overwhelmed space
i carved the bowels of my cello
out
and wished to crawl inside.

(the sudden gap, welcoming,
the woodstain warm
and the ending curl a deeper chocolate,)
my fingers stumbled inside,
and measured the path for my (rest-of) self,
longing to peer out
from behind the curved slits of the body,
craving rest inside the gentle hourglass.

and yet the space was small.

my form,
not so fragile as to fit inside the instrument's,
proved much too rigid
for this counterpart,
shaped as though her maker had
sighed
while carving.

with reddened cheeks and cupid's mouth
those same fingertips which had with interest explored,
now ceased,
and set her with care back upon my mantle.

it seemed that they had reconsidered,
and upon careful speculation,
supposed it silly to render a home of guilded wood.