You are a camellia potted on a Steinway basking in my nocturnes. To baptize you is to ruin my vintage black lacquer. Even still, I love you when your falling leaves  interrupt my ballades. Your water damage bends my A flats to Gs, but when you carve uneven patches into my hi-shine finish the reminder of you in distorted reflections  makes my white keys gleam. You are a well loved music book, but you are pianissimo, cycling through muffled songbirds  writing to me. And when your sweet incantation  dances atop coffee stained pages, it reads a silent waltz. You are a heart shaped rosary decorating my upright’s body— but rosaries want soundless symphonies, not sonatas.