It was the way her fingers danced on the piano keys
As if her mind was underwater, engulfed, electrified,
A smile, towards me, dedicated, her hair vandalising
Her eyebrows, the heat on her skin, the outline of everything
Within her turned outward, my love for her, filling the room
Wordlessly, the twitching face, concentrated, stands commemorated.
The heroines of days deceased, the ashes rustling in the winds
Today, still, the stories and letters, the silhouettes and names.
I want to run my fingers through her hair, her spine against
My stomach, the forehead under my chin and lips, she was entire,
So close to me, the windows closed, the curtains enamoured
With the muffled sounds and dreamscape melodies, her slightly
Pressed lips, muttering, under her tongue, shrouded in associations.
The woman made out of porcelain, the evasive patterns, the
Translucency of her temples, the back chambers of her mind,
The neglected lipstick, the dusty drippy lips, the bursting mouthful
Of flavourful symphonies and unmentioned diary entries, a pianist in
A bowl of glass, I can hear her voice and what she never said to anyone
Else before, in the waves orchestrated by her trusted instrument.