Thursday, September 15, 2005

Nobody’s Poet

You see them on college campuses. Or occasionally in airports.
The obvious curve of a guitar or cello case, voluptuous, obscene.
The subtle rectangles of violins, trumpets. Clarinet cases easily mistaken for briefcases, unmistakably long and narrow for flutes.

An instant pang of longing for the play of my fingers on keys, instead unhappy at being cramped around pens and pencils for too long, calluses to show for it. Stoic, repetitive manipulations that make up lab work.

It’s a cliché comparison, I know.
I played my lover like an instrument.
I played my instrument like a lover.

But it’s true.
I removed his shirt and ran my fingertips along the curve of his chest, the pleasant broadness of the masculine shoulder intensely satisfying to my senses.
I open the sleek black case and inside lay the flute on a bed of crushed blue velvet. The brilliance of the silver, the delicate workmanship in each and every crafted piece achingly beautiful as I touched my fingertips to the keys.

And it all comes back to me when I see these cases being toted around by their owners. Like post-coital leavings: used condoms, hickies, and the stale smell of sex.
But less prurient.
More pure.

I know you’ve fucked.
I know you’ve played, made love to, whatever is in the blank black bag.

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