The stone is rough against her back
and cold as his voice, jagged
with painful accidentals and discords
that do not resolve.

Her voice is cello-pitched and cello-pulsed
a soft ostinato plea of his name: Fenris, Fenris,
Fenris. Her urgency touches his notes
and transmutes them
so together they change the key; it's major
now, stronger, the accidentals
given purpose and the tempo increasing

as her mouth meets his
although it stops their speech
it is no rest in their music, which drives
them onward, forward, together, as hands
pluck heartstrings, hearts beat
the oldest rhythm, and pleasure sings
across their skin, through
their bones, each nerve
flashing cymbal-shiver to the next
like the clear lyrium
light that casts its own shadows.

The crescendo rises to climax

and a time of silence before the coda
follows, diminuendo. She rests for several bars
and his part is soft and sharp, familiar
discords played again
without the cello's part to sweeten them.

His last kiss
is in a minor key.