The world’s smallest violin
is carved from a splinter of pride,
strung with the thread of a promise
I never quite tied.
It plays in the pocket of midnight
when the moon’s too ashamed to shine—
a squeak like a rusted hinge
on the door I closed behind.
Every note is a postcard
I never had the heart to send:
“Wish you were smaller,
small enough to fit in the end.”