You’re a maestro, orchestrating
my beloved
tune of black and white
encased in memory of those
Sunday mornings,
A composition of me within those keys
that your fingertips would stroke lazily
through the legato,
Drifting through a melody of sin
and desire imprinted in the scales
on my ivory skin. The black
spiraling down the decrescendo
echoing the tone of the charcoal sheets
and white lilies,
That hymn strumming a ballad
on my bruised heartstrings,
and suffocating my mind
with your fingers on the guitars neck,
No dot of duration on your dark suit
or refrain after conflict,
Just conscious numbed inside your sweet tenor,
Trembling, eyes closed to the grave
Voice echoing around these hallowed walls
over my slur of notes
My body now, a half step away from you
Resting. Finally.
And the fall descends onto your aged fingers

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