The Pianist

I bet you are a piano player.

Music runs in your bloodstream like I run wild in the forest of oblivion.

When at night you touch your piano

I by the window set a chair and listen to the tune floating in the wind

I haven't seen you playing

I bet you wear red lipstick glistening like your moist,

Hair curls are wild like flame,

Your fingers might be unusually large to play with the keyboard

Or to feel your depth.

When you play, I wonder how you know my music desk,

With your each pressing, you touch the cord of sound board

That resonates the love of moon for the ever-glowing stars,

I feel the rhythm with undivided attention,

I close my eyes as you appear in my vision clad in voluptuous red dress.

The music is loud now and breathing its last,

It seems.

I hold myself from being content entirely.

I want to let myself go but I can't,

Becoming difficult to bear with the climax,

Neither I nor the music is ready to meet the end.

As together we approach the beginning of an end,

The red is being removed and miles of skin beneath lurking,

I unchained my sweatshirt.