As I write my passages,
Erik plays the piano,
skeletal fingers moving along ivory keys,
as the nocturnes spill into the cold december air.

Absent he may be,
Erik does not disappoint,
rythm and tempo are wrought into existence,
by living entities,
pressing keys and buttons,
or tapping on steering wheels,
with their lips quivering in high pitch whistles.

I wonder where Erik conjured his works.
In the eyes of a woman?
Or those of the sky?
snow-flakes?
Grass blades?
or another somber serenade.

What is the purpose,
Erik?
Am I writing for myself?
Of course,
But,
is it wrong to show them in doing so?
can men dance for a music they don't quite understand?
I hope so,
for our sake.