My saxophone,
I named it once when I was eleven,
is so beautiful
A loss of words,
and my tongue is stuck
Lymph notes trick me
A scarlet visage,
and my speech is shit.
Oh
my Alto Saxophone is always the same colour
And it never fails me,
never leaves me.
It clings to my every intention
My run-to,
who knows me oh so well
I hold you,
And your waves engulf me
Fingering its keys,
at a slightest touch,
My Saxophone sings out pure love.
I have a head full of deception
And a heaping heart of naivity-
None of that matters.
Not when we are near-
Not when my lips rest on the dented plastic.
Nor again when I salivate,
and I run my tongue on the cool, jagged wood.
And I'm working out this amazing instrument
I used to despise it
practice was tedious
and music is meticulous
I thank God my parents invested
despite my complaints and laziness
And I thank God twice
For giving me the guts to disown my mother's clarinet;
that pathetic, scrawky, seven-piece clarinet.
Only love could describe
what me---
My Alto Saxophone and I
inspire
In each other.
