He sat there

cross-legged on the dining room floor,

devouring every move

as if it were new.

 

She sat

in the kitchen,

on a lone folding chair,

bathed in the moonlight, cello  at her feet.

 

Clad only in a white slip,

no jewelry,

no shoes,

she unloosed her hair,

set herself free.

 

He forgot

how to breathe,

anticipating the moment,

for this was the way

it always began.

 

Cradling the cello,

between open knees,

she caressed the strings,

disappeared in herself.

 

Eyes closed tightly,

she became his stranger,

the look on her face

a painful reminder.

 

He arose

from the floor,

stood transfixed behind her,

his breath

on her neck

a reminder of presence.

 

Placing a hand

on the small of her back,

an open palm

on the face of the cello,

he held her somewhere

between body and sound.

 

And that’s where he lived,

on the edge of all silence,

though she made him believe

he could always hear her.

 

Copyright 2017