beethoven’s ninth
plays softly in the room
as the moon
sits lazily in the sky outside
on one of those
in between
kind of evenings
that melt away
into the many
unremarkable events
broken
by a few magical moments
that make the slog
semi-worth it

at times

my mind wanders to her
chestnut hair
that hung to rest
over her shoulders
but not quite low enough
to mar the view
of her slight breasts
that turned up
like tear drops
with her delicious looking
nipples
always poking
the soft cotton tee shirt
in spellbinding rapture

but

the crashing instruments
call forth the reason
those breasts
aren’t resting on my chest
as we lay
approaching slumber
in a tangle of limbs
and
low gentle breaths

loving her
was like composing
a symphony
without having use
of one’s hearing
sure
it can be done
but that type of genius
is beyond the reckoning
of mere men
such as i

i could
brush my fingers
down the ivory keys
wet the reed
with my willing tongue
pluck at the strings
with a semblance of skill
but never
combine that
with the soul of the composer
needed
to pull the notes
that called forth
her song
in the manner
that befits
a force of nature
untamed
by my novice understanding
of tidal shifts
or tectonic rigors

beethoven
sounds his fury
softly
in the background
fitting
for the turmoil
in my guts
as the scent of cinnamon
a hint of jasmine
fills my nostrils
with the phantom smells
of the symphony
left decomposed