Lying on top of you, my arms and knees
support my body even as I grope
for how much of me your frame will carry.
You hold me closer, you’re not heavy. So
I lean a ladder into you, step hard
up, and clamber to the top window
to hear you play Chopin’s Etude in C
Minor. I enter through the window, drop
into your room. I sit down quietly.
You come to a passage hazardous and slow
like footsteps on decaying floorboards
of an old house. The pedal mutes the piano.
Then I become afraid you will not be
playing, beside me, with such quiet hope
forever, for nightfall, for lonely,
and what that will do to me. I tiptoe
to the window while stroking your forehead,
lean back into myself, walk away below.
