That Cello Curve

I close my eyes to see that magnificent curve of woman that runs from hip through waist.
Companion in flesh to cello carved by old knowing hands
of master craftsman
who works alone
in a small room, creating immeasurable beauty.

Contours along which I can wind slowly.
Carved with purpose and time until the lean of their lines
can wail sadness in gut wrenching murderous, murky tones.
Only a half moment before she left lullaby's in my ear,
breathy and sensual.
Now this hand carved woman is dropping
charcoal grey moans into my fire pit burning.

The volume on her speakers goes up
as slowly as the brazen nature
of each inch
I inch
along
her
softness.
Soon she speaks to me in loud-speaker sounds'
of passion rocked
back and forth movement
like bow on strings in symphony
and the strings cry with their volume up.

I turn her volume up.

Play her like music
with woman touch magic that she feels
with her woman touch need.
Lips on lips
meet teeth on neck
meet flesh taste
sweet
words whispered
turning into
filthy words spoken
meeting on the edge,
so we just drop
with the bass.

Sounds bleeding and me
with honey on my lips.

Staccato. Heavy.
Begging please.
Strings vibrate low notes in dark places.
They rumble.
I give her bass moan kisses on wet woman pieces
and she gives me her hand carved cello curves music.