"Stitch for me a melody, sire, in your favourite key."
"Why must your musical euphemisms always be so mundane?"
"Hmph. Fine. I want you to write me a song."
"Sure. Care to name a mood? My key is Bminor. it's suited to sadness."
"...It does not become you, this constant melancholy."
"It does not become you, this attachment, or concern."
"I'll write you your song, but I'll write it once you're gone."
"I shall be waiting."
Mornings became too sombre, breakfast a lonely affair. He hummed a reticent tune, a song tired of waiting. It waved through hollow corridors, and sat on a breeze, carried to her estranged ears. The ears he kissed every time his eyes came undone.
He sat in his silence, chewing on eggshells.