Never have I wanted to use your body like a piano until now,
play it vigorously until it breaks.
I don't know many chords
but the effort could be beautiful.
I could become devoted to your keys,
your sounds,
the difference between your sharps and flats.
I've learned to take pride in simplicity,
like three notes coming together to sing your moan.
Was it the right keys or an accident?
I've heard symphonies made out of you,
but i am still unaware of how to make you play for me.
My hands aren't big enough to play you properly,
there is always one key missing.
No matter how carefully i play,
I find it difficult to produce the same melody twice.
You were never meant to be replayed.
Instead, you are captured in one vast fleeting moment
praying to be heard by the ears of the restless
in hopes of making them complete once more.
But how can you yearn for the wholeness of others
if you will not fill me up first.
I long to fill this room with your music,
I want to hear you just one last time.
For a very racey title this was actually constructed by listening to beethovens moonlight sonata