The musician must learn to trust;

Their eyes to read the notes,

Their hands to interpret the melodies.

your mere presence disrupts such requirements

My hands stretch over

Ivory octaves; fingers poised

To glide over them

And create music

(But doubt persists)

The musician must learn to accept

How the music is written;

Only minor deviations are permittable.

your mere presence disrupts such requirements

I cannot trust my senses

I cannot accept what's written before me

Though I have no capacity to rewrite it

By myself

(would you care to help?)

Someone told me you sing;

Is that true, my dear?

Perhaps we could write a melody together

Form new verses and restructure the chords

Transform dissonance into consonance...

We agree upon it and both

Reach for blank sheet music.

Our fingers graze accidentally;

My cheeks pinken and I curse

My wretched, intolerable feelings.

The delicate sheets of yellowed paper are only

Slightly more fragile than my heart;

So you trace the notes carefully and

Using a blunt pencil,

You avoid the sharp truths

Neither one of us can admit.

Listless, I nod along with your suggestions,

Transfixed, I watch your dove-grey pencil

Embellish countless notes and control the dynamics—

The tempo is adagio

(slowly, slowly, my love)

You announce its completion

All too soon.

I want to protest, but that look

In your calm, cerulean eyes insists peace;

To which I comply willingly

Incapable of sight reading, I tell you:

"I cannot play it without practice"

"But if you were to try—"

"I cannot."

Fear resides in every fibre of my being.

It is this fear that prevents me

From playing what you wrote —

Though I cannot tell you this

Aloud.

You mustn't chastise me, though,

As I keep our melody in a treasure place;

In between the pages of my diary

So I can take it out every night

To run my fingertips over the pencil indentations;

To press my lips against where your fingers were.

Perhaps one day,

When the auditorium of

Condemnatory onlookers has dissolved

Into obsolescence,

Perhaps then I can learn to play

This music — draw upon my musician's instincts,

And unashamedly play

The melody

You wrote

For

Me.