"Sing to me a song when I was sixteen"

Dance with the soul that sings the same song.

She was a pretty song with simple words, the melody of which he had memorized years ago. Light and lilting, pleasing to the ear as it plays in the minds. The tune of a lazy, leisurely life of first loves and high school days.

He would've been content hearing this spiel for the remainder of his life, the repetitive words and looping melody as the soundtrack to the comfortable, complacent life he has with the girl and her cornflower blue eyes and easy smile.

The violinist coaxed long, low notes from the instrument and contentment was forgotten like yesterday's pop song.

Her wordless symphony whispered in his ear stories from the violinist's unfinished novel; epics about battles he wished he had fought with her and tragedies he longed to have mourned for her.

Her music was mellow and melancholic, a song that haunts the heart and enraptures the soul, the notes of which he might never memorize, but the melody of which he will always recognize.

Her invisible art painted blood on woundless hands, and gashes on a heart that has yet to heal, of boulders too heavy and mountains too high, of shrouded yesterdays and blurry tomorrows.

But there are psalms in her threnody, that he is aware. It is in the faint smile on her dry lips, the sway of her thin body.

It is in the cracks of her mask that reveal her character, the edges of her words that give definition to the curve of her simper, the purity of her souls that defies the corruptibility of her being.

It is in the beauty of her darkness, rather than the darkness of her beauty that gave depth to her staves, that made his heart rise in his throat with every crescendo, and sink in his stomach along with her calando.

Cerulean eyes and a half-simper.

"Did you enjoy the show?" Her voice sung.

Sweat glistened on her brow, exertion dripping down the contours of her pallid cheeks like unshod tears, peeling lips upturned in a rare smile, soft breaths fogging the air in shallow pants.

The violinist was a wordless symphony, the notes of which he may never memorize but the melody of which he will always recognize. Enthralling and enchanting, that horrifies the heart and soothes the soul. Harmony that may be far from flawless, yet was fierce and fearless. A euphony he wanted to listen to for the rest of his existence, that which steals his breath and restores his faith.

Cornflower blue and easy, too easy, smiles hum in the back of his mind like earworms.

Cerulean and half simpers made whole call to his soul like sirens.

He rested his fingers on the black-and-white keys of the cherry wood piano.

"Play with me."

- Ariadne Grey