The Composer’s Lover

Alex Dimitrov

We had an hour without music.
A nerve brightly turning in a closed room of the mind—

the heart’s black pool, a word that expired into the air
and woke everything.

Your bed slid under an invisible knife.
What happened to us after meeting, when the right note claimed

Manhattan’s May morning like an elegy
already moving through the living?

Today, we are among them. Here to unsettle each other,
to undress beside the piano—elegant and unmistakably his.

Once it has you, there is a mouth
that never releases. A faint circle in a field of rust

hanging on the wall. We are not there.
We are in our bodies.

Like teeth marks in a shirt you once saw falling off him.
The delicate taste of blood that passed between us

before lust, before anyone could forgive us.

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