My skin is blank sheet music,
and you begin to craft a
song with me.
We write an entire
symphony upon each other,
practicing arpeggios and scales
until each one is
perfectly blended into the next,
one movement cannot be distinguished
from the other.
You begin your overture,
striking chords along
my collar bone and ribs,
each tone lovingly clear.
You are the real composer,
the maestro,
the cellist.
I am simply your muse,
your baton,
your bow.
The reprise begins to fade,
our breath comes back to us,
and we treasure the invisible
notes, rests, and tempos
that played across our skin.