I want to play with him,
to watch him brush the music with the tip of his bow.
Brow furrowed in concentration.
I want my knee to brush against his,
as we sway to the beat of the beautiful music
we are weaving with our wooden souls.
I want to feel his elbow against mine
with every bow stroke.
I want him to move his chair closer to mine,
as if to breathe in my presence.
I want to feel his pristine blue eyes on me,
tracing my bow hold and straight wrist.
I want to feel the tips of his soft fingers-
kissed with his musical gift-
gently move mine, correcting me.
I want him to smile when he hears me play,
and look up and freeze when he sees me enter.
I want to sit next to him,
to speak through bows dancing on strings,
and weep in the sad melody of a song,
and laugh,
and dance,
and sing,
and yell,
through our finely tuned wooden voices.
I want to play with him.
I want to feel his lips soft against mine,
his hand caress my cheek.
I want to play with the boy who barely knows I exist.