'Not about violins'

In another life, I’m an expert violin player. My eyes and ears draw to the instrument like a moth to a flame. My fingers tingle at the possibility of holding a violin bow and playing the most beautiful melody ever heard.

I stand on the sidelines, watching the way she twists and turns the violin bow expertly, with a confidence and perfection that can only be accumulated after years of practice and talent.

Our eyes flutter closed as we get lost in the melody she brings to life.

The night doesn’t still, rather it collapses into a million pieces— one note colliding with the next, one 'what if' merging with an 'impossible'.

We collide, me and her. Me: the dreamer. Her: the achiever. She is me, but I am never her. We are alike in every way and so divergent in many.

She is north and I, the south. Her, the shining diamond; me, the dull rock.

Tears sting our eyes when they finally open. Mine from sadness and infatuation, hers from happiness and satisfaction. The sweet melody finally lolls to an end. She is so effortlessly beautiful, so—so undeniably perfect. And I am not.

It’s time that separates us. I, the cygnet; her, the swan.

In that life, I’m an expert violin player. In this one, I merely wish to be.

This is not about playing violins. —Aria

Recent feedback: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/E5tN1PpapS

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/NYka2DJIly