We were a piano, you are the keys, I am the strings, or perhaps I am the peddles beneath your feet, we play beautifully when we're alone.

All the right notes, fingertips and tired sighs.
We make love, we make poetry, we make music.
Your tired back, aching over the keys. There's a violin somewhere in the back ground. But all I can hear is you. Everything is louder in this empty hallway, empty home. You echo...& return to me.