Page 12 - Demo

A PRIVATE CONCERT AT HOME
There I was, again. Another lockdown night, waiting briskly and proudly.
That evening each of his senses were transferred to his fingers. They meandered like never before. They created paths, drawing beautiful grooves and holes, touching, feeling each one of those strings. His index finger floated in midair, looking up at the sky, seeming to sigh, longing for that dream. His middle finger, however, throbbed strongly, not caring about the risk of falling deep under his own weight in that sharp “Mi” . The room, in silence, was enjoying their off licence wine and left over Mexican.
The foot tapping became closer and closer, faster and faster.
The public (well, it was really just me) was uneasy, but he took notice of them as if they were expelled from a tuning fork that marked their rhythm. And his hands, and his pulse, and his notes, accelerated. And the fingers of his left hand, which seemed timidly bent, stretched and shrunk and crushed those strings, with the bravery of a bull. And the tapping could be heard louder and louder, closer and faster. Tones, semitones, fingers, hands, sweat and passion intermingled. Reaching my mouth, hot. Threading my body onto his violin.
Turn me on, quickly, lie down next to me! Cover my chest with your violin hands, hide my heart, stretch my ribs. Take off the quarantine of my lips, and the sadness of my eyes. Make me lose consciousness with the melody of your fingers, the tapping of your heart. The strength of your strings and the calm in your eyes. Because we have always been the fire and the moon, the mountain and the cave, the rainbow and the rain — that meet, once again.