I am an instrument
that longs to be played
I retain the memory
of all the songs
spawned in my womb
and they are many
but they don’t ease
this restless yearning
to be touched again
by your skilled fingers
to have your
untrained genius
pluck at the chords
of my soul
repeatedly fiddle
with the black and white
keys of my desire
and make me hum
to the tune
of intuition’s most
primitive rhythm

this want
to feel myself
in your arms
is deeply rooted
in my hardwood nature
precisely etched
on my shiny brass

I don’t want
to be the author
of any masterpiece
that brings a stadium full
of people
to its knees
if at the same moment
you are busy
someone else’s
I don’t want
to break any records
if it means
I’ll be leaving
you behind

I just want to be
your private tool
I prefer the casual intimacy
of your living room
the scandalousness of the
backseat of your car
the shadow-invigilated
propriety of your
bachelor’s bedroom
to be alone with you
with your daylight
and your night-time
because my intrinsic
stems solely
from the secondhand
of your creation
and discovery