Eighth and half notes paint
swirls of cerulean
and violet behind
my eyes, their music

thrumming, through my thighs
while I rest against
the grand lacquered depths
of black maple pressed

to my cheek. She's perched
above me, her calloused
fingers arching to stroke
the yellowed ivory

of middle C before
they lope toward the
polished ebony
of a B flat and further.

The clean, salty scent
of her skin fills the few
inches between us;
her song wanes, stops and I

open my eyes to see
her face before mine,
half moon scars on her
forehead, her crooked nose

half hidden by messy
hair, and her familiar smile,
leaning in to press
her chapped lips to mine.