Cello-
          Her lips explored my chest as we sunk into
          An array of pillows, the smell of oak and maple-wood
          The soft scent of age and nutmeg, and the Tempting nature of the sunset.
          The band begins to play, a smirk on every spirit, a thought to guide them all.

Violin-
          My teeth raked across her neck, slowly devouring
          her inhibitions, her last layer of resistance and sociability
          I licked her collarbone, and she dug her nails into my shoulder.
          The deep pounding of Demand welling in her throat.

Saxophone-
          I caressed her leg softly, spidering my fingers up and down
          her inner thigh, like a child running up and down a staircase
          Except she was spiraling, not I, into the music of our Passion.
          And I enjoyed every minute of her fall.

Harp-
          She Came back to my lips, her tongue dancing with mine,
          A sensual sword fight of lust and heat, derived from inane
          Arousal, primal tension, and the memory of nights before
          Orchestrated around us, becoming the very air we breathe.

Guitar-
         Straddled on top of me, a sight I will never forget
         I lift her with confident arms, and show her why
         Some people don't get up in the morning, why some
         women sing in the morning, like a bird resting content.

Bass-
         I savor the taste of her, slowly, unrelentingly pushing her
         off of a cliff, only to rope her in again and again, so that I may
         Enjoy the sight of her plunging into the waves. The beat of her life
         Engraved into my tongue, the sound and taste of my own heaven.


        We sit amidst shattered and broken instruments
        That play for us when the lights dim, and our passions dance
        The song of love is its own chorus, choir, orchestra, symphony and
  Conductor, a man known as dusk, and his fiery eyes peer through dusty windows.