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Dec 2016
You play along
the piano keys
the Mozart piece
played from memory
your fingers can walk
in the dark,

your mother
is in the kitchen
preparing breakfast
you can smell the bacon
and imagine your mother
listening to you play
ears cocked
for any errors
in tone or speed,

you want Benedict
there behind you
his hands around your waist
as you play
his breath on your neck,

you play the Mozart
and imagine Benedict
is holding you near him
his chin on your shoulder
his whispered words
in your ear,

you are going too fast there
your mother calls out
from the kitchen
her tone critical,

you adjust the speed
focus on Mozart
not Benedict
that's more like it
your mother says
you must focus,

that half hour you spent
in the guest bed
where Benedict was
that night he stayed
is alive in your mind
as you play,

you come to the end
of the piece
the echo of the last note
hangs in the air
and you wish Benedict
was there.
Terry Collett
Written by
Terry Collett  72/M/England
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