A Minor.

You littered the piano with notes
Took all the sanctity out of my singing voice
It's a cold, cold day it's been a
bad, bad year
How nice it is to sit a mere
closed door away
and hear your music.

And watch your fingers stroking the keys
as though my body would burst into song
if you chose the right notes
if you commanded it so
if you filled the air with sentience

you could just as easily fill me with hope.

Rising up that scale, shrill
my nerves surrendered to the utter,
utter majesty of your music
Your muscles tightening when you touch
the blacks, whites, my hips, the strings, my waist
the waste it is for you to
make these tunes,
if you don't want to play me.