Again

The curve of your neck where I nestle smells like the future. I hold you everywhere and as often. I never tire of rustling these pages. Your spine runs my fingers down. Every vertebra softly presses yes until they all run together in a symphony, in downy sighs of fur chorusing. Your spine runs my fingers up, skin soft and taut spread across your back’s map. Each freckle is a fret and each shoulder a sharp curve to the perfect body of your guitar. At the top of the chord, another resonance of yes, a rustle of pages, a neck that smells like my future, my everywhere and as often. You turn me over, sounding tuning notes with your bow, tapping our harmonic rhythm, opening your arms to me. I sigh, yes,

Again.