His hands; small, compact, yet not feminine
often cold, yet to her always gentle and soft
moved across the keys in a deft movement
of musicality and feeling for the notes portrayed
connecting; bringing warmth to his body.

She saw palm trees bowed against the hurricane
their chestnut barks as tough as an elephants hide
withstanding the onslaught of the wroth; opposite
of the fragile hands that were building the music
to a crashing crescendo of waves on a battered shore.

He did not fully hear her declaration of intense and
unconditional love. Consumed within his own
interpretation, he merely shrugged in reply
and she knew the moment was lost; as the dying
notes faded into the emptiness of the room.