I was told by my friend Nick Fu that
an un-tuned piano can never make music,
despite the intentions of the player.
And now the old upright from my childhood
sits by the mouth of the staircase,
with cobweb skin, and a sore throat.
Sometimes I think about trotting downstairs
and playing it.
opening up the top and letting the sun shine
on the beautiful machinery.
Mostly those feelings come at night when all is asleep
and the sun is gone.
Sometimes I get up and go downstairs, inches from your face,
hovering my fingers back and forth like dream.
I’m sure its old bones wouldn't mind the workout though.
Maybe I’ve neglected you. Made you starve. Made you wide eyed.
Made you hate me for not echoing you through the chambers
of everyone's tiny dusty heart.
Sometimes I sit backwards on your bench, trying to see what you see
but I know you can only see when you are being played.
and one day you thought I was back, but it was just the kids next door,
punching your keys and pulling at your ivory.
To everyone,
you were ugly.
Maybe even me.
I haven't thought of you in so long.
The way we met met fingers through life, and works of music,
and heart
in the past, Surely extends to now,
I’ve done it
like an old romance movie: “you once found me beautiful”