A ghost sits beside him
on the well-worn piano bench.
Black cherry staining holds strong
against years of wear.
His seat engraved -
a small divot carved
from countless hours of diligence.
All where he lay himself
at the mercy of the keys.

Most of the time,
porcelain and ebony fingers
clutched his heart, allowing every beat to
bleed life into the music.

For it’s not him that dictates what he plays,
but what the keys see inside him.
More often than not,
a minor chord reverberates
against the practice room.

From there it’s a dance.

Fingers
     gliding,
           traipsing
up and down the length,
piecing together a melody
that speaks volumes to him alone.

Every note holds a word,
a piece of himself.
An outlet for emotions
shoved inside a shaken bottle,
finally exploding against the refrain.

Mason’s weight creaks beneath the bench.
It’s old, could probably do with replacing,
but he will never own another bench.
Worn in the wood next to him,
a smaller divot keeps him company.

Mason’s fingers leave porcelain
to run over the groove.
A little over a foot wide,
though he remembers her being much smaller.

Memories tug at the corners of his lips as
he splays his palm against the seat.
It’s likely bigger from the squirming
she’d done whilst waiting for his attention.

God, he wishes he’d paid more attention.

But some songs would forever be played in minor keys.