My lips are shaking:
They're waiting for you.
This one's for the birds...
When I'm up high and half
amazed, dumbstruck, fearful
of death,
I envy those flying things
who have no evident fear of so much mortal space
between themselves and the center of the earth.
When I'm up there, I tend to
think of you out of nervousness.
Fear and love are close.
My hands are shaking
and I can't play piano.
I mean, I couldn't really play before, but it is
worse
by the time my nerves allow a concert
of found-by-ear singled plinked notes.
My song for you. (It's really not "Mary had a little lamb".)
Nervousness revisited;
I wait for you to kiss me by the percussion.
I will push the piano out of the window
and curse impatiently for that noise to stop in my heart,
make those dying moans from gravity in the corpse of the piano
pay for my
music-ravaged soul.
Stop my shivers
and come closer, if you dare.
With my eyes closed,
as I breathe deeply,
I invite you in from my ledge.