These quiet adventures

If I were to love a man again
I would want him to not care that my hands were cracked and rough
and for him to pretend that kissing the evolving scars would
somehow make them disappear and take away the pain.

I would want him to want to run with me,
or if not run, to at least walk through some trail without words
or with words, but with no rush, no competition,
unless out of pure sport and laughter.

If I were to love a man again
I hope that my humor, sarcasm and occasional cynical optimism 
(if there is such a thing) would be countered with his own
because goddammit, life’s a bitch so why not make fun of it.

I would want his passion for life or
at least his passion about something
to be greater than my own because if my own enthusiasm 
bit me in the ass I probably still wouldn’t notice.

If I were to love a man again 
I hope that he would know that my love is not easy to come by
after years of distrust, but once he’s got it he should know that
I would give him the world and despite my feminist ways,
I would probably make him a sandwich if he asked for it.

I can write my words into musical notes

with a lack of creativity

gimme the words, I’ll draw the notes

Simple, without a tune, I’ll give you rhythm.

I’d like to play with your instrumentation,

though really we could just skip that.

Let’s write some music.

More words on a page.

Rhythms not like heartbeats 

because that’s too old fashioned. 

I don’t want romantic slow beats,

I like punctuated sounds with rests and holds,

Like catching your breath in the middle of a song;

even pianists forget to breath.

Hands move over keys; hands move over bodies.

Mistakes are made and notes are dropped.

The music sometimes stops short.

Redos don’t really work outside of the practice room.

I can play one bar twenty times til my head spins but at least,

my fingers got it.

People don’t work that way.

There is no replay, no practice session alone,

with love there is no pause long enough, there is no coda.

What’s played is played.

Everyone is listening.

They can hear you skip a note in love more

than they can hear it in the music

(I’ve played enough horrible pieces that have ended in applause

to know that).

When playing with love,

you’re always on the stage.

And sometimes there is no applause.

There is no encore.

You leave your music behind.