The Recital

I met you just twenty minutes ago, in the coffee bar, when we were introduced. And we took our seats as strangers, the recital about to begin, hushed whispers. And then Marion starts the Capriccio, and we agree under soft tones that her passion is overwhelming, her hands strong, but gentle, fingers on white ivory touching.

The grace and the divinity of her music moves my soul, thoughts of my childhood, my father and his vinyl, and a ticking clock on a mantel piece in a derelict boarding house, his seclusion.

You move closer to me now, to my shoulder, your head angling to see her play, through the gap between patrons in front of us, a pristine bun of hair blocking your view. And you say something like “Wow”, but in a few more words, your bitter breath touching my senses, my toes shooting out bolts of tension, Brahms a superb choice. And I can’t think for a minute, listening to the notes, smelling your mouth, seeing you smile.

fantasy abounds,
soothing movements, three and four,
a cold Autumn breeze.

And then I watch how you caress your face in a moment of intense concentration, the music filling our souls with warmth, and how those two hours with you inspired me to feel again. Like young lovers.

closer than I think,
desperation, suicide,
raging through my mind.