clarinet

I touched your old exterior,
I had you since middle school,
And played you till my senior year of high school,
You hold many memories.
You hold a lot of grief.
And when I bring my lips close to you and play you once more.
Those deep dark tremble notes,
Come off more sad than mysterious.
They mourn.
They cry.
They scream for attention.
Your silver keys are worn out,
The reed against your mouth is tightened.
My embrochure is probably weak.
But something like this is like riding a bike.
Once you stop for a long period of time,
It doesn't take long at picking it back up.
I look at your case every day,
Every nerve of my body itches to play you.
To read sheet music once again.
To play those high notes in a symphonic tone.
Yes, I may play you one day soon.

a.b.