heat on a heartstring
plucked with
a slick fingertip,
wait for the beat --
syncopated, they tap
calluses on her soft skin.
she likes it, though.

it feels good, though;
rough and ragged
(the breathing, i mean),
different and new
a swooping stomach thrill
after the silk lining of being
a daughter.

i'm sure it's a long haul,
that's what this means.
the whispered drawl
and a quiet kind of love:
tacit.

cast and crew
numbering a humble two
bow at scene's end,
you've made it, you've made it.
both given the performance
neither will
omit.