She stands quietly.
Right where I left her—
still, waiting.
Curves aching to be held,
her polished form fading
beneath my absence.
She’s never asked for much—
just hands, just time,
just the space to be heard.

Strings lie still across her perfect frame,
tuned for moments that never came.
She holds no grudge— only potential,
gathering like dust
beneath the weight of my excuses.

Her voice— I’ve heard it in glimpses,
echoing faintly through closed doors
and crowded schedules.
A sound that once moved me now
muffled by every reason
I gave to walk past her again.

She is the calling I keep postponing.
The open door I never step through.
Maybe doubt. Maybe fear.
Intimidation often creeps up
when confidence is unstable.

She is my dream,
the love I long to display.
Perhaps my pause is born not of doubt—
but of feeling unworthy
to touch what feels divine.

While I tread
the battlefield of my value,
she just waits.
A quiet reminder
that faith without action
is a song written,
yet never played.