imagine

i was ready to go home. i gathered my things.
you said, so . . .
i waited. i knew i had to wait.
you said, so, do you want to . . . ?
yes, i wanted to.

and you were writing progressions you'd never played, moving beautifully in the mid- to low range of the instrument --- our instrument, massive and reassuring and if i believed enough i could feel an animal warmth radiating from it --- and i was the descant, flying off the high end, taking chances because i knew you were beneath me. and we can move synchronistically while being fully different from each other, and it works, it works almost without trying, and oh, nothing could be greater. for those 74 minutes nothing could be greater.

[this is not about sex. this is about music. which, for some, sometimes for me, might as well be the same thing. don't frown, we all have our thing: running, cooking, art. it comes close - tell me it comes close. if it's anything like this, it must be good.]

you kept playing forever and we carried on a conversation mid-composition. it never ends, which is just as well, because i'd rather it didn't. is this what life could be?

an open book. a new melody. lines written and scratched out and rewritten. it's irony, don't you see? that's what i was just thinking. i was just thinking, this must be the most alive i've felt in a long time.