Classically trained in you.

You appear as a ghost to me,
when I play chords simply yet soulfully,
and though I only visit the piano
in intervals now, you sit and listen
between the silences.

Your divinity astounds me,
the way one loses their faith in summer
only to have every measure
of sunlight restored.

I once believed there was
no more than one higher being;
how foolish could I be?
To feel the rough then delicate
stem of your shoulder blades,
your lips like chicory that is found
bitter, yet still instrumental.
You garden with the gods but
choose a path of mortality,
accepting the wisdom of death,
planting your dreams in lands
that have not finished their eulogy.

With you, there's always warmth
found in the crevices, in the drafty lungs
we share, in the forsaken meadows
where I used to beg death
to be my lover.

Home is not a place I know in
these bones; I reserve that honor
for the place after life, after death.
Reincarnated to bloom with and
for you, someone I've never even met.

-

Written while listening to the piece "Always Summer" by composer Adrian Johnston.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_4SrmKaCx4