Melophilia…

Without words, she can wrap herself up in me so comfortably. I’m the music that touches her pulse. Her luv’s unconditional calm. With clefs upon my skin as if braille to be read. She feels me deep in her own tender hearted chest. I’m the note her voice speaks as she calls my name. As she’s may composer with every accent representing my heartbeat that’s untamed. Her hands orchestrate my free will with perfection. Without restraint she has my full cooperation. I’m a blank sheet of paper that she’s created a masterpiece upon. The articulation in her precision writes a musical story that can only be felt by the interaction as if her fingers were wands. Ascending and descending on the scales with ease. Breathes become the tempo in which she moves lyrically. Adagio, into the coda that releases her from within. Like the subtle originality of a cadence playing in the wind. I am her natural accidental that creates flutters in her rhythmic values. I’m her accompaniment of the melody she possesses. The orchestra written without a sound in which she obsesses. For she can hear me by merely skimming through my intuitions. My pages are exposed to her naked sight that sets me free for she’s the musician. I’m the musical notation, the sheet music that’s her verbal animation. Luv’s ammunition. She’s my technician. With every beat she feels my presence. Listening to every chord on every bar’s essence. Even if I were muted she knows where my aria sings. From a cadenza to a masterpiece. I’m her symphony she can dance to. She’s the harmony as her whispers are the chorus precisely tuned. Euphonious. Ever so precious. Together we’re a ballad of instrumental bliss and vocal composition. We’re that noise always playing in the background of our minds. As we hum along with the absence of time. Swaying to the vibe that lingers in the way of us. Rhyming with an instrumental we’re conscious…