Music is Sex. It Just Is.

Music is Sex. It Just Is.

by james bezerra

Slinky black dress you wore

and the hem that pooled

in puddles on the marble floor

around your ankles

while you played that piano

with just the tippy tips of your fingers

and the scores inside your eyelids

and I think I alone noticed

the muscles in your calves twitch

on the deeper notes

with your old ballerina instinct.

And I stood there in a suit,

calm,

sipped wine like ink

and watched the way

your body throbbed

just a little

when your mind went away.

And how did no one else know

you came just a little

right there at the end

when the crescendo peaked

like you do

quick

and fast

and hard

and a little sad

and then gone.

Fancy christmas cocktail party people clapped a little,

said you played well,

didn’t know

you didn’t know

they were even there.

Didn’t know

you didn’t play for them,

didn’t know

you’d just fucked Vivaldi right there in front on them.

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