There’s a certain tenderness in the way
you play your piano.
Fingers climbing white upon black
upon ivory notes,
fringe tumbling, neck slackened.
Your sternum rises in concertina
or an exorcism of breath
drifting downwards through scales
in the honeyed light of bold mornings
you have stifled away with curtains.
They hang there, freshly torn skin.
You told me once, quite absently,
rubbing stumped resin on violin strings
that one can play two instruments perfectly
but one will always dominate.
I think about this for a moment, rotating my ankle
to a fragmented Moonlight Sonata,
watching minor chords seep from your eyes.
One always dominates.
I believe I am that violin, cornered out of your vision,
and I wonder who that piano is
as your fingers reach out and play.