Compose our story on cold wood we clutch,
let fingers play that familiar tune.
The keys, they trickle as light as your touch
on my hips, soft, then hear that tension boom.

A trace is broken as passion crashes,
consonance only our bodies can create
like something seen in light of matches.
The strings come to life, a scene to narrate.

Reflection dim in that old baby grand
the echoed sound and crash reoccured,
two lovers intertwine, soul in his hand.
The sweetest melody they’ve ever heard.

And although keys may grow out of tune and crack,
those hands forever keep me crawling back.