My Cellist

Not every hand

can hold a body like a score

but yours?

Your hands don’t play

they compose,

they orchestrate

~

You don’t rush the rhythm

You linger

wallowing in each sound

Fingertips press

slide

slow

deliberate

~

Under you

My conductor

my body isn’t played

it performs.

A symphony rising,

notes slipping

dripping from my parted thighs.

~

And in that music

you don’t just play every note

you make me sing them

The rise and fall

The dulcet sweet tone

The heat of passion

A chromatic masterpiece

as you caress every note

of my body and soul