Concerto.

Hold me against your body,
run your fingers along my magic strings,
turn each stroke into a haunting melody,
strum away my pain and make me sing.

Gently press your lips against me,
wet them and then softly blow,
with each exhale, I let out a sigh,
then slowly lose control.

Whether you’re an amateur,
or the maestro of the symphony,
the music we make is a consequence
of our classical chemistry.

Pretend I am a piano,
let your fingertips dance wildly on my ivory keys,
silence your suffering with moonlit sonatas,
finesse me with my very own Fur Elise.

Now blow into me with all your might,
let me blare like trumpets and French horns,
empty your lungs into my own,
then listen proudly as I fill every corner of the room.

Count the beats and keep the tempo,
when you bang me like a drum.
Smash into me like cymbals,
swaying in vibrato to the rhythm.

When you’re feeling blue,
cradle me like a saxophone,
let my sweet jazz soothe your sorrows,
until you remember you are not alone.

Whether you prefer the balalaika,
the sitar or the mandolin,
your hands will always know
the right notes to play on my violin.

Slide your bow across my bodice,
seduce me with its soft skin,
your musicality never fails to amaze me,
every note in consonance.