and you got me thinking, sir. tapping away, and humming. to the tunes of a voluptuous roar of cello ensembles and quartets. i wanted to be a musician. once upon a time. a concert pianist. and i wanted to live a dream. through my melody. through the cadence and chords of all the crescendos i had once composed. walking into a hall. with a million eye balls. and fidgety heart beats. and i'd swing my head back. and strike the chord. as if my force wove a garland of rhyme. so beautiful and kind.
as a matter of fact, pachelbel's canon in d was one of the first baroque pieces i studied for my diploma in solo piano. when i used to be this little ragamuffin pricking around trinity college. in greenwich. and i remember, how i held the baton. ha, that at the age of thirteen. my naive finger joints trembling to an immature nervousness. and i heaved and sighed. for over twenty-seven seconds. until i raised the wood to the beauty of cellists and fiddlers. crying upon a melody so beautiful. so mellow. alternating between thunderous crescendos and coy diminuendos. the tremelos on the violin. like strumming on silk. and i wept for a while. taking it all in. thinking i was a musician. thinking i could, one twilit evening, conduct the philarmonic in royal albert.
well that never happened. and i didn't listen to the canon till you reminded me. the day before yesterday. and while i ploughed through the archives to listen to the tune. at three o clock this morning. i felt the same. the lingering beauty of d major and semi-tones. the sanctity of matrimony. in the dainty yawns of the columns down at the palazzo. thank you for reminding me B. the music flutters in my soul. and it will, for the next few weeks.
i miss you love. and your dainty lips. and your gentle bosom. and the texture of your smile. i hope you are doing well.
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