She is playing Moonlight Sonata

and I’m drawn by the sound of a soul

down the silver corridor to hover in

the flickering doorway to listen

as still as the air.


When she is finished,

when she has played it six times through,

and I’m still not tired of hearing her,

she puts the soul sound on repeat,

echoing through the shadow-shining house,

bright as starlight.


We dance, painted like a dapple-gray horse,

the silver melody winding around us,

and I feel safe while she tastes like

grey nighttime and home.



When everything goes white,

I mark her gleaming with unspoken words,

tapping myself into her skin

like the strains of a soul onto keys,

to be remembered fondly,

as she sleeps.



The music, and everything,

fades to blackness.