I like that you are old enough to be my father,
Your body carrying the etching of the map
Which tells your way to me across your wistful face
In symbols of the painful scrapes and folds of silence.
I like that you are wise enough to be my teacher
Who dares pronounce the word my body writes in signs,
Your lips becoming the asylum for my tongue,
And that our urge to touch each other is forbidden.
I like that if not me, you would not want a woman,
Your fingers only being tender for a man --
That you have changed your ways across your wistful face
Which dares reflect the femininity of music.