I’ve begun thinking In terms of music. We are a decrescendo, Falling from forte To pianissimo As the clock ticks It’s rhythmic warning. Your voice is always In crescendo, A cello when you laugh, Mournful viola for those moments Your strings are wound Too tightly. The way your fingers Glissando across my rib cage, Playing con amore upon my skin. You taste like a symphony, Brass and woodwind, An opus on my lips. Some days You make me forget How playing someone Can be bad.