She touched me like I was her ivories,
but she played me clumsy like a bassoon.
She taught me how to swagger,
until I fell beneath her wooden shoes.
Most nights, she slept so sound,
a fisherman’s lure was the only breaking calm.
I adore the arch of her eyebrows;
Steep dim peaks rising above Chinese ink.
If she were made of watercolor,
I would bleed to be her page.