She wasn't hollow after all,
Not like what you expected out of a typical cello.
The transitions into a deeper cleft got your fingertips down her neck but they would never produce a fortissimo melodic sigh.

They way you placed her between your thighs,
She'd never last,
Not with the weight of your anxiety condensing and squeezing down in relief on her small spine.
Her cherrywood smile squeaked under the pressure but you don't hear a thing as you've become so accustomed to her subdued sound as her voice balances and blends into the rolling tympani.

And that's how you liked her. Only on Friday nights, preforming a fake love affair in front of a crowd of five hundred. For your and everyone else's fleeting entertainment.