.You Play Me.

Counterpoint. I lie on the edge of the bed, my stringy limbs mangled around you.

Ornaments. You stroke my hair. Gliding your hand down my pants I feel you harden.

Capriccio. Youth desperate to invade the other, lack of control metamorphosing into some sort of arcane rhythm.

Articulated kisses. You preface each tactile thought with a kiss, just as you finish every cadenza. Punctuated throughout, your lips compose dot after dot after dot after dot after dot until you’ve miraculously composed a score.

Ligaments and Ligatures. Bound.

Adagio. Moments of rest are few, you jump on my chords, repeat them, repeat them, rest, repeat them.

Allegro. Frenzied now, your touches come mixed with pain, and pushing ever deeper you hurt the sound structure of my being.

Like notes floating in mid air, you leave me hung on the precipice of desire.