House of Ivory

Hands touch the ivory and music comes alive in

dancing notes on staff paper and the

groan when you get something wrong

and the soft sigh when your fingers touch

the keys in a way like never before

and the way the piano sighs and gives beneath

you—filling the air with a sweet sound of moans

and groans that sound more human than piano

she’s alive beneath you and you can feel it in your

fingertips you can feel the way she arches and bends

to be closer to you and the way she smiles under her

breath and praises your name in her beautiful tongue

and the way she whines when your fingers slide from black

to white black to white black to white and how you caress the

whites and pluck the blacks she can feel the sweat collecting on

your fingertips and transferring to her clear ivory skin she can feel

the way you shiver above her and the way your breath catches and pushes

your hair up from your forehead—but only for a moment—before it comes

crashing back down against the sweat-drenched skin

and you can feel the way she collides against you in music and the way she

throws her head back against the wood and cries out your name when you

run your fingers up the keys and across the piano’s surface and the way she

mimics your cries of pleasure as you hit that final note and the song comes

together in beautiful, writhing agony and you both smile together and suddenly

it’s over