Monday, June 15, 2009

The Page Turner

Jun 15, 2009
Keys pressed with passionate force
as hands make love to black and white.
You inhale, page turns, the next measure begins.
Sensual harmony playing upon waves of ether
blows your hair in dark curls.
Each measure, each note, beats in 3-4 time, carrying
the gentle scent of your hair, cologne,
a gift from your lover, mixed with cigarettes and shampoo.
You play for something, someone.

Eyes reflecting in the dark keys
you massage while white teeth glitter under lips
as you smile, pleased with something else that I cannot hear.
Afternoon shadows fall across your face
as hands caress music from ivory
at the end of your arms.
Long wiry soft limbs, tan with sun and the time changes to 4:4.
Tense muscles in your back contract and release
upon each harmony with muscular force
pretending perhaps to play upon something else.

Everything in rhythm, you walk with hands hung down
tired from play, swinging on beat.
The piano hurts, it has no back and you provide its spine.
You are sore, but still gentle. For whom do you play?
Why do you tempt and infatuate me?

I want to caress your hands, your lips.
To feel your muscles move as you play upon the keys.
Though I can't touch you, so I inhale and watch with lust,
waiting for the next time I turn the page.

You brush me gently, as if by accident.
The piano shudders as the cornice of the melody approaches.
I pray it's not only the fault of the music but of your need, of want.
And then it's over, your skin leaves mine
and you move to the next note, the next beat.
I exhale.

A page turns by my hand, song springs from yours.
Our hands move separately together, gently apart as a
brush of bare arm startles a wisp of dark lock over your eyes.
The music stops, Our breath is finally in rhythm,
you lean back and push your hair away.

You smile at me and I know that a brush against your arm,
a grin from sensuous mouth is all I can expect.
All I should wait for,
knowing your hands play for someone else.

Another song has begun, you reach the apex of the crescendo
the moment you realize what the song is saying, and sigh,
wondering what it means.
Waiting for more from your hands,
would only waste time, beats, music.
Waiting for you to caress my body, not just my heart

Your hands play upon the black and white
and it's all quite gray.
Why do you caress with such fervor?

You play by the rules, by the direction of the music
without wavering enough for anyone to notice.
But then you brush me again
a high note rings in question, in alarm.

Waiting for the page turn
I sit wondering, when the song's over,
when the music's done, will my moment be forgotten?
Or did you feel it too?
Who did you play for just then?
Who do you play for now?

My wanting hand turns your page, your passionate note
spins my heart.

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