My song is meant for only one. Faceless tourists pass, preoccupied with sights, not sounds.
Drawn by my melodic tones (or hourglass figure), he cannot help but linger. My fingers dance upon the strings: he dances unselfconscious to the mellifluous melody. He chances to ask my name, prattling as a schoolboy to his crush. Hand in hand, we twirl, dizzy with anticipation, drunk on music, we laugh and spin ever upward — excelsior! — in a breathless bellaroundaballadine… then collapse (he, never to rise again).
Black widow-like, I weave my melody. My song is meant for only one.