Instrumentale.

I play your skin with my fingers
like the cords of a violin.
Your sighs are the music I compose.
Pianisimo, my love.
My concerto is easy to write on pages of inspiration
and with a bit of antisipation,
I trow a glance in your direction.
You curve your body to the shape of my violin
waiting for the encore
and I enter your heart through every pore.
My pen writes now all the notes on a line
and my melody is written on the paper of eternal rhyme.
I love my instrument and the sounds of her heart.