You’re notes on a music sheet that my fingers try but struggle to make manifest as they move along black and white keys. My eyes read you ever so carefully, but with such anticipation that they miss the intricate parts that make you the timeless piece you become when anyone lays their ear down to pay enough attention to you.

You’re all the wrong notes I’ve ever played, compiled into something the Beethoven of our century would be jealous of.
You’re soft notes interrupting my harsh thoughts, neutralizing the war in my being.

I want to sit on a stage in a house full of esteemed music makers; to present you to them. I want to fill their ears with your euphoric sound and tell then that they’d be lying if you weren’t the most entrancing piece they’ve ever heard.

But I also want to keep you to myself. I want you kept in my head, so far into my thoughts that no one would ever know you. So I’d never have to share you.
My knuckles are hurt and my hands tremble from playing you over and over again, but each bone in my body welcomes this gladly.

All that I am continues to dance to your melody. All that I am casually crawling in between note followed by note to revel in the warmth you bring me.