The Piano

Oh that night, separated now by years and wounds and joys.
That afternoon sitting at the piano, you beside me, playing, playing
And talking in the subtle and awkward hints of an infatuated youth, green as springtime hills.
Conversations lightly brushing against the yearning for wild abandon and love,
Never voicing the desire, the tumultuous sea of want churning from the hips and the eyes and the soul.
It was a sexual desire, yes, but more.
Embodied within it was that secret drive, that beautiful beast
That looks upon each new mountain as a chance to climb. That vigor that time tempers to domesticity, not yet caged.
It was love, no less so for its hazy objectivity.
Love for the hunt, for the feel of dew on bare feet walking with other bare feet.
Not jaded by time, unmolested by the complications of the life we pile upon ourselves.
It was pure.
And though paths diverge and time heals old and finds new,
While sitting there so long ago, when I felt your body press against mine for our closeness, it was right.