You are the harpist.
In your hands,
my body forgets 
it is a body
and draws tight
toward what longs to sound.

You barely touch me —
and still, in the dark grain of silence,
a string lifts,
as though it had been waiting.

I am not the one who plays.
I am the Maybe.
No more than that.
The tremor before the note —
the one that, when you fall silent,
does not come back to me.

#poetry
#lovepoem