Cello-ist

I saw him playing cello on the roof-tops
of old desires and I instantly
wanted to know
more.
I wanted to know more about this lingering
song of inverted empathy and I wanted
to feel the tension between his strings.
I wanted
the grit and the grain of bow hair
and friction
to be the taste on my tongue because I knew
that these things were the only bridges
that could reach over
his high walls.
And still, when I could not have
these material things
I climbed,
using innuendos disguised as intentions
as my stepping stools.
I thought that maybe a beautiful mind like his
could learn from a heart like mine.
I thought that maybe
I could take his calloused hands
and teach him how to play a song
about love.
I thought that he could learn something
that the experts never picked up,
something only an amateur could know.
I doubted myself
because I did not have a real wooden body of my own,
no means to create physical music,
but I still grinned when I finally reached him.
His song still filled my lungs,
even though he had stopped playing.
I was here. The only instrument I had
were invisible heart strings
and he was there with a humor in his jaw
and a twitch in his neck.
Perhaps now, we were just two men
sitting atop a roof
with an old wise cello
nothing but classical music
and sweat filling the space between
our fingers.
but this did not mean that either of us had
to be a soloist.
Together,
in the grounds and hollows of our bones and spirits
all we really were was one
cello-ist.