the desired sadness,
worth a heiving...
a claustrophobic heart...
a sense of
nearness...
something...
beside the ordinary,
and esp.
beside being
ordained
worthy outside
the existence
              of a novel...
a...
   piano minuet...
like...
i only want to play
the piano,
but i don't
want to play
either Liszt or Chopin...
i want...
to feel as if i have
a heart...
i want to play...
the piano like
i might experience
the heart...
Debussy...
Satie...
                 Priya...
i want to live a life
of having
to experience
a love teased,
kept in the "dark",
"as if": waiting...
but then...
i don't even
want "that"...
do i?
             i forget
to levitate,
and gravity...
whenever i am bound
to having to express...
taking a ****...
anchor: first mate:
down!
all the way down...
among the *****!
gentle tunes...
tickling
rather than playing
a piano...
you are a being
i feed off
to feed a worthwhile
forget for
all that is and protrudes
itself to be "worth"
remembering!
   a beauty in the blink
of an eye...
a secret...
       a taboo...
          and something...
that would require a god
to make reality of...
and even then...
not worth the effort...
something...
as fragile as spring
and as vague as
whatever colours appear
in winter...
something truly
transcendental...
in passing...
never to be made unison,
to be joined...
passing, or fleeting,
by matrimony...
yet...
persistent... "there"...
gravity -esque...
       a verbiage burden...
my, little... piano escapade...
to attempt battling
diacritical marks with
nuance...
          my little something,
my altogether, nowhere;
my time, my patience...

                  my...
                              i cannot
even mourn...
being kept apart...
     i...
                 i cannot even begin
to sip at the fountain
of ambition
to make the ideas,
to people, unite....
    
      it's as if...
with first sight...
your first sight is to turn
you blind...
        i concede...
      mockery...
derision...
             so little acting
i have left in me...

     but a snap of
the fingers...
                   while the mountains
crumble...
               thieving love
through the artifact
of a butterfly's existence
of, par: 2 weeks...
           flinch of hue...
and burgundy...
to arrest
           the cheecks to tame
the sudden plush
they are to imbue...

     yeah...
i know... redundant...
       rhododendron reality...
i can't escape it...
like i wish there was a
plug-in realism anti-god
app.,
            muse... nabokov-esque
                      pristine...
if anything is worth being
lost...
it's that "you"...
              just like...
if what i remember...
is to be made concise
within the framework
of me?
                  there is no... "me"...

rhododendron reality...

                 or...
playing the piano...
very gently...
like a Debussy...
which you cited...
when your father drove
me home one night...

         Satie...
i was never into bashing
the fingers...
akin to the virtuoso
of either Liszt or Chopin...

     like some templar choir
boy for the monks...
       i touch this china-girl?
i am water,
she is salt,
she immediately melts!    

       all but the tender kissing
of a worth's concern,
to translate
what i did to a body
of a *******,
and what i could have
done with yours...
intact, with a seal
of a ring of obligation;

but this is not
the life i am to be allowed
such...
peacocking...
i abide here,
with you...
your humble...
                         pauper;
music appreciator:
               grandiose.