Since you have already plucked my heart strings,
let us make music together.
Whisper to me at night,
in syllable serenades that I
will only half remember on waking.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
until my tongue can stand it no more
and I must speak in symphonies.
Touch me delicately,
tickle my ribs until they become piano keys,
and play them until they cry out
chords that spell your name.
Let your laughter be trills in our cadenzas.
Let the pop of your knee drive a march to my bed.
Let me run my fingers up your spine,
jumping vertebrae like octaves,
from your tip to your toes.
Let my every shuddered breath be but syncopation
to the bass drum of your heart.
Be quiet with me,
let us play in piano,
soft as silence or sleep.
Stay there, linger for as long as the fermata holds.
And then, let us raise our voices together,
glorious crescendos upon crescendos,
until at last we can build no longer, and
return together to the tonic.
Run your hands across my hips,
play my longing in liquid legato strokes,
effortless in your endeavors.
Touch me again.
Let our gasps play counterpoint
to the melodies of our moans.
Take what you will of me,
fill me with song,
write sheet music in my lungs,
so that every breath I draw
sings on its way out.
Purse your lips and kiss me like embouchure.
Give me every quaver, every semitone, every holy harmony.
Leave me buzzing vibrato,
kiss me con brio.
Let me caress your delicate curves,
as though you were a violin made flesh.
If my temperament be just, then play on.
And let us be of one form, sonata-allegro,
until we must be jazz.
And then we shall burn the world with passion,
with chords no one knows but us.
So, for the sake of recapitulation,
I must ask again:
let us make music together.