The Cello: I write what comes to mind.

She leaned, forlorn against a weathered wall
No hall to fill with song.
Slender neck,
adorned in scrolls of curl,
poised itself in wait of charm extended-
-for strings had not yet dimpled at fingers deft,
nor had she known the spring of ample stroking.
He came to her, with understanding hand
and eyes that fell at frame of curving grace
and dared to stretch his touch to sleekest sides-
-her perfectly contoured hourglass,
swollen, for want of play-
-and at his lasting trace
her tips edged shyly upward,
to be encompassed whole.
When she warmed and whispered awakened,
soft vibration
she brought his bow, aloft, to the strings
to slide in flowing motion
above the bending bridge.
With movement skilled he met her
caressing back and forth
in gentle adagio that eased woes
and oozed pianissimo through the twisted wood
surrounding her with richest resin
until she swooned in soothing phrase,
surrendering to his gift.
Mellowed vibrato swelled
and vigor grew
as he persisted in passion’s modulation
with sweet allegro strokes and deeper still
'till every space of hollowed belly filled
with rigorous crescendo,
filling,
Telling love’s concerto.
She rested in exquisite song
of satisfied sound
and he knew,
through satiated quiet,
she was hand crafted
to sound his music.