You lean against my bedroom door, scratched wood, old strings
Strings stretched into curly tendrils, rusty, but the melody is still there
The sun shines on the hole in your chest, the heart where the sound flows smoothly, freely
Truly
My fingertips tap tentatively on the side of your rib, slowly stroking your neck to life
Feeling every worn down knuckle of your wooden skin smooth against my palm
I let my hands explore themselves on your body, and once again
I find myself lost in the sound of your song
