I find it ironic that for a
man who didn't want to be
a music teacher you are so eager
to teach me how to make music.
You're patient with me when
our notes turn sour or the
rhythm is all wrong.
With gentle hands you run
scales over my spine like
keys of a baby grand, and
remind me of the importance
of breath support, while
simultaneously using my air.
You tell me that stage fright
is only as real as you let it be.
That making love, not unlike
singing, is about letting
the audience see your soul, and
that you (the only patron in my
concert hall) already sees it, loves it,
and wants to hear it.