“May I have this dance?” you say, extending your hand.
I smile and tuck my violin under my chin.
Unable to resist your love poem in F major,
I begin to fly across the score.
“Sehr Langsam,” you insist.
“Molto Adagio,” you repeat.
“Very slowly, dear,” so you’re certain I know
That fast tempos end movements too soon.
You and I spin in the tight embrace of contradiction.
We are a perfect blend of harmony and dissonance.
“I’m no good for you,” our fingers interlace.
Young love yearns to both grow and last.
I close my eyes and move with inhales held
A little too long. Cello melody interrupts suspension
And crawls across the floor to toes silently counting rests.
Exhales cover the sound of our heartbeats.
Your Adagietto is enveloped in resolution.
My vibrato slows, sound scatters, and stillness cues
Symphony number five to melt in the fleeting silence,
For the finale movement still rests on the stand.
While poets conduct words moving pens in three-four time,
Composers write poems of crescendos and decrescendos.
“Crumple up the score with clichés in lines.”
You whisper, “Life, my dear, is a symphony.”