Song
Late at night, just you and me,
you sing your sweetest Symphony.
Strum the strings and pound the drum
that grumbles in your throat.
Upon thy swollen reddened lips
I bestow my gifts in flurry,
as I try to draw the music out
from sweetened, taunted tongue.
As closure draws I lay below
and surrender myself so deeply,
to musicians hands much stronger than I
You play my chords so sweetly.
Bach’s chaconne, Beethoven’s fifth
will crumble beneath our artistry,
as fingers lace and arms embrace,
and hearts thud in perfect synchrony.
Yet then the night is still again,
my eyelids shut in meeting,
for no sound that lulls me more
than your heartbeat as you’re sleeping.
