Soultrane.

I imagine love mirrors that of
Watching jazz, live.
 
I imagine sitting in
Aching anticipation
Awaiting
What will be my soul’s soundtrack.
 
The penetrated piano keys mimicking your passion.
Ascending.
Engulfing.
 
Coltrane’s capabilities couldn’t compare to your compelling melody.
 
Double bass vibrations.
I want nothing more than these vibes.
 
Your ten fingers
Strumming four strings
Similar to the caress of
my infinite amount of
Nerve endings.
 
The mahogany instrument piercing my mahogany skin
With it’s waves of rhythm.
 
Take a closer look,
my spirit could be seen dancing at my lateral.
 
And what about the trumpet?
 
Would you consume my thoughts
‘Til it’s reached its limit
As Louis Armstrong did his cheeks?
 
Or serenade my ears with speaks
Of your desire for me
As Billie Holiday’s voice could effortlessly do?
 
Ultimately.
You’d be my favorite song.
My footsteps would follow
Every note your heartbeat made.
 
Maybe love isn’t like jazz music.
Perhaps it’s its own genre.