I am a timpani. You are a skilled percussionist, expertly wielding your mallets. Rumors of instrumental mastery excite and intimidate me and as you approach me for the first time, I search for a symphonic focal point. I am weakened by the heat of your hand near my husk enticing me with anticipatory upbeats.
I am breathless.
You lure me with precision in timbre, sonority, style and placement, tempting me with rhythmic perfection. You play me like you know me and as you carry me to a higher musical sphere I begin to surrender to each perfect and previously unexposed profound moment.
I am mesmerized.
As you watch for our cue, your fingers muffle my quivering vibrations and my skin grows hot as I wait for your strike. Inches from my sweet-spot edge where my sound is at its roundest, you roll your mallets from quarter notes through sixteenth notes, pianissimo through mezzo forte. Your build is painfully alluring and tension mounts to fortissimo cries and a trill too fast to notate.
I am tethered.
Your mallets are worn from the constant beating, dislodging my clinging skin from its accomplished intonation. I succumb, my outer shell no longer willing or able to resist the slaughter. I yield to the hunger for barriers and partitions to be ripped away, the heart exposed in all its beauty and ugliness, sans apology.
I am unearthed.
I lay shattered before you, your mallets no longer necessary for dissection, fortitude now sacrificed. You attentively handle each piece, careful not to bruise or scratch. Your sympathetic hands cradle each shard, stroking tenderly, gazing lovingly. You commence reconstruction, a composer painstakingly discerning the resonance and harmonic overtones of each note of his composition.
I am open.
You are passionately riveted, building rhythmic, melodic and harmonic structure, phrase by phrase, not by alteration, but by revelation. In the darkest, ugliest corners, there is truth, beauty and strength, framing your foundation. Each fragment is adored, acknowledged and nourished in all of its grotesqueness and magnificence. You see me. In my fresh, perpetual trust, I will give you everything.
I am naked.
You possess me and I painfully acquiesce, because there is no other choice. You are a potent drug and I am confident you can deliver me to the highest level imaginable, where you will accompany me. I am lost in your eyes and your touch, ever present and exultant. You reveal yourself to me and I am transported to a world from which there will be no departure.
I am loved.
What began as a duet now blends into one perfect melodic line, parting only for the creation of sublime counterpoint. Two instruments, no longer identifiable in their individual tones or tempi, but merged into a single instrument. I no longer exist without you.
I am obsessed.
Our composition comes to an end and I watch you retreat, preparing myself for the approaching pain. I stretch the calfskin tightly around my core, securing it once again to my copper bowl, for I am a drum, in need of being played.
I am sick and lost in your absence. And I wait.
I am a timpani. You are a skilled percussionist, expertly wielding your mallets…