The Space Between Words

To Tess, my baby blue.

I can't croon like Frank Sinatra,
I can't move like Fred Astaire.
But when my hand moves
down the back of your neck
and my fingers grace your body
arched against mine,
fitting curve to curve,
each stroke lays
melody over harmony.
A mix of licks remembered
and improv'd positions and
movements leave me
intoxicated, when
out comes your music and
into my ears, through my body and
out each finger tip
in between your lines until it
comes to fruition in
the space between words.