Rhythm, desire, and the silence that follows.

The warmth and smoothness of your breath almost sound like the saxophone playing in the background.
For a moment, I can’t tell which is which.
One moment, all I feel is the smoothness in your whisper,
the next, the adrenaline of the horn.

But it’s the tremble

the shared, trembling adrenaline in both,

that fills the room,
growing comfortable in each other’s presence.
We’re wearing nothing but each other’s arms,
no words spoken,
only the occasional breaths of desire.

Each time you go deeper,
the horn sighs in unison.
And as I tremble,
it growls,
as if it too is reaching its climax.

But like music,
this moment was always meant to reach its end.
And in unison,
both our breaths quieten

softly.

Mine still breathing softly.
Yours, not at all.

I try to play the record again,
to live in this moment with you, all over.
But you’ve already broken the tape.

The saxophone doesn’t just play

it breathes for us.
It bends and breaks the air between our bodies,
until the line between melody and memory blurs.
I think that’s what we were,
a song improvised in real time,
beautiful because it was never meant to last.

And when the horn quiets,
I realise,

it was never just the music that stopped.
It was you.
It was us.

Writer’s Note

This is a short piece, just me writing about intimacy and how it feels in the moment,
how something so simple can feel like music.
I compared it to my favourite instrument, the saxophone,
because there’s something about jazz;

that rhythm, that breath,
that feels alive, fleeting, and a little bit fragile.
Like intimacy itself.

I often wish moments like these could last longer,
but they rarely do.
So this is me holding on,
just for a little while,
through words.