When it begins,
it’s like discovering
the decadence of music.
Perhaps your breath hitches
on the cello carrying the countermelody.
It reminds you of their voice,
as they warm spices in the kitchen
and you’d wrap your arms around them from behind,
like the horns come up from under
and saturate the harmony.
Their body feels familiar in all different ways,
a second listen granted to a beautiful movement.
You can’t tell them you repeat
the first song they showed you
because it smells like their skin
If you listen close enough.
And they can’t tell you that
they try to harmonize with your
speaking voice on the phone
because you sound closer that way.
They’ve turned your solos to concertos.
You feel their lips on your cheek and
your hair stands on end like you’ve
heard God on their lips;
their touch is prophetic.
You hold them close and hope they’ll linger
like a violin on a high note,
and you can’t bear to open your eyes
and dismiss the beauty of the moment.