Sonata Appassionata

I love to slide my fingers up and down their smooth hard surfaces, savoring every inch of their breadth and length, touching them, kissing them, surprising with a delicate tickle. Brown, white, black, their exteriors thrill me equally and their size doesn’t matter.

In all positions, on top or on the bottom, I seek harmony. Sometimes I tease a yearning whimper from my lover, pianissimo, a lullaby, dolce, dolce, then I attack--mezzo forte then forte, my passion swelling to wild crescendo until, spent, I collapse, exhausted.

I wish it were always so perfect, but like all lovers, we bicker. I even hit them sometimes, pound them mercilessly. But while I may rage, from the dissonance often comes understanding and the sweetest song, and when we part, a piano and I, it is with regret, affection, and the promise to return.