Gooey Music

Really fun read.

Slowly, poured into the room as we drink it up,

like honey for our ears.

I get drunk on everything about you,

Are you, bottle shaped to hold,

The viscous music filling us up ever so slowly?

 

 

Almost off beat, almost the same rhythm,

Almost perfectly in sync with the bass inside us.

 

We are syrup being poured out

From the composers metronoming fingertips,

We endlessly crash with each other,

making our own music,

following the rhythm

As we reach our destination,

The narrow cup on the bottom.

But it isn’t about filling the same space in the end.

Its about the ride down, free falling.

We are the new instruments to this old song.

 

Placing my hand here sends a slow, gooey, jellylike

Visible vibration through you; almost as if you are dancing

To the music I’m producing on your body.

You are my living, breathing, dancing guitar.

You produce beautiful music,

I play your sensitive skin sensually, so slowly, so in sync it seems

As if you receive my strum almost instantly.

But we both know it feels like an eternity for the music

To reach our ears when it comes out of us.

Its not about the noise that is heard,

Nor is it about the music that is played through us,

It is about practicing an instrument that learns from us

As we learn from it.

 

Our hearts have their own pace.

But now, even our red blood cell wants their turn

Closer to the skin, to feel this music being made.

But they are holding their breath, much like us.

So they rush back to the heart,

who is drumming them to his beat,

and take another deep breath,

So they can rush to the fingertips

To almost catch a glimpse of the music being made outside.

 

My senses are becoming confused.

My eyes can hear the candlelight

Dripping off your bare body.

My skin can taste your lips,

The closet it can get to a kiss back.

I thank all of them because without them

I could never hear, see, taste, our music together.

 

Each time is almost like a new song.

Or is it that we forgot the words

and the notes to the last one?

Still we are the same instruments,

Just with more experience than the last time

And less experienced than the next time.

Author's Note

Any advice?

Reviews

[~]

A really exotic drink this viscous muse of yours. Great metaphors attacking all the senses. :)

[Rick]

Thank you for your review. I'm glad you enjoyed it!