a poem about a harp

 Originally Written 6/24/20

I am a harp. A beautiful harp, trimmed with gold and utterly pristine. 

Made by the finest crafters.

I enjoy being played and to hear the sounds I make.

My strings jump with joy when we feel a touch we haven’t before or hear a sound we didn’t know we could create! 

My frame brims with pride when I feel different hands come together to play a tune I’ve already learned,   

It’s a sensation that makes me transcend the stage I play on, and bounce off the walls of the theatre surrounding those who love me in a tight, romantic trance.

The audience feels it, I’m sure of it. They are enchanted by how my strings move like butter when I’ve mastered a classic, or when a musician has since mastered me. 

I am meant to be touched, I am meant to be played. I am meant to have each of my strings moved and picked, and I am meant to shine and glimmer for all to see and hear. My strings are pulled, and I am as entranced by its aftermath as the one who pulled them. 

What they do not tell you, however, about being a harp is how we ache.

We ache when left untouched.

I let my mind wonder at times, why did the music stop?

Was it a foul sound I made? Had my strings loosened too much and left my echo more tinged than soft?

Or perhaps my master did not want my strings to wear, and hence set me away, reserving our next tryst for a more elegant affair?

The dust cover grows thicker day by day, covering my beautiful frame, obscuring me from the next philharmonic to cross my path. 

There’s no sorrow deeper than discovering your most beautiful harmony, only for it to be lost and forgotten after it's finished reverberating through the chambers.

I ache. But I am a harp, and I am meant to be played. I have harp strings, not heart strings. And all will be okay.