by C.L. Bishop
copyright 08-28-2002
You took my wood up in your hand, and tightened my heartstrings,
Offered your love as rosin for the bow, and that settled everything.
It was music when you glided gently, to and fro, across my middle,
But little did I know the player was playing me as second fiddle.
Oh yes, I knew that someone else sat in your heart’s first chair,
But I thought for certain, once you had plucked me, you would place me there.
You played me like a master, and yet I languish here, in my place,
With a longing for your touch, and a memory for your face.
And while you still like to strum my heartstrings, or stroke my fragile ego,
You’ve only truly played me once, but you refuse to let me go.
You leave me here, in waiting, while you chase after your true love,
And yet you are his second fiddle, but that we won’t speak of.
Akin to love’s triangle, second fiddle is a heartless beast;
Making you want who you shouldn’t most, and count who you shouldn’t least.
It turns out even I am not immune, because I play a second fiddle too –
She’s chasing boldly after me, while I’m chasing blindly after you.
So stop the music, and let me ask you: now fiddler, is that fair?
Why am I holding out for you, when with her, I know there’s something there?
I’ve willingly been your second fiddle, and yet my heart remains precarious.
Whereas she would cradle me in her arm like an irreplaceable Stradivarius.
She longs for me to nuzzle her neck, while her hand gently rubs mine;
Her fingers causing gentle chills that ebb and flow along my spine.
I believe she could be the player with whom I was always meant to be,
But before I can know for certain, I must first set myself free.
For you’ve played a mesmerizing tune, like a siren with a fiddle.
You’ve had me asking endless questions, like the Sphinx, with its ancient riddle.
Now, at last, I have my answers, and it has taken me so long to see:
It isn’t love between us, but just a piece of history.
An intimate weekend, magnified by the whole world coming together.
That made for powerful bonds; ones which I thought would hold forever.
But fiddler, I now see the truth: that you’re not the player for me,
And so I slip those bygone bonds, and thus I am set free.
With that, I loose a heavy sigh, followed by a deep breath in.
For I am no longer your second fiddle, but I am now her violin.
-CLB 8/23/02