Call Me My Name
Updated: Jul 14, 2020
They rarely called me by my name. Cello. They always called themselves by theirs. Cellist. Before, the feelings were mutual. They used to love the way I fit between their thighs as I loved the way their hands caressed my neck. They lived the way their fingers ached as my torso did too.
As the years went on, I’m not sure they knew I felt the distance. As if I were just some old pics of wood and string. While still gentle with me, I felt the slouch in their back. Even though My voice was loud, their yawns were sometimes louder. I felt the quickness in their limbs as they placed me down and zipped me up, without even saying goodbye.
I was silent when they were sleeping. Or out to lunch, or out with friends. My vocal chords clenched in anticipation, waiting for the next time I would be surrounded by them. I used to be like fresh river water, dangerous for me to be contained. Now I lay stagnant.
It used to be just a few hours, then every few days. Now, every few months. I know they are never as happy to see me as I am to see them. It wasn’t like that anymore, though my body aches for that kindness again. Before they could discard of me to their dusty basement to rot as I knew was soon to come, I reveled in their touch just one more time. Because I never knew when it would be their last.