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I've never told a lie, and that makes me a liar I've never made a bet but we gamble with desire I've never lit a match with intent to start a fire But recently the flames are getting out of control.
If I play the harmonica part now, interrupted breath dancing in wooden holes, the tamp of pink tongue to stop the tune, the whorl of tongue to go, the organ chords rake my lungs so hard they steam like an old locomotive leaving.  
If I play any electric keyboard, I find flat contrast, not your fingers, the curve of bone and sinew pressing ivory flesh, the octave reach and play of strong thumb and palm open, full of melodic note, not your hold.  
I remember your strong lips in embouchure playing me, pressing whole notes into my mouth until quietly I said what you needed to hear, important words like promise, the key signature of a long-lasting song.  
Instead of playing your abdomen like strumming a bass, my strong arms reaching around your narrow waist, my big hand pulling notes from your center, I've taken up the cello, feeling the nape of your neck still leaning on my shoulder.  
If I tried every instrument in the band, I might find your body, but not the strong clear note you rang through my bones. --Trevor McDermott
“From a little spark may burst a flame.” --Dante Alighieri