It pulses and twitches like a nervous heartbeat,
Of your fingers
Tapping an absentminded concerto
Against the mahogany,
With the throb of my own
Fluttering disquiet ⸺
Taut, tense, and waiting
At the bass-line below the table
To catch the tempo of your consciousness
On the harp strings of my fingertips.
A combination of some random jottings I made awhile ago and reworked into one text.