A white fabric,
a curtain, perhaps?
I'm not sure.
It's covered with dust
that floats in the air
of the sunlit room
as I pull it off of my most
prized possesion.
Just the same as I remember;
ivory keys in perfect shape,
ebony keys in between.
A black glaze painted expertly
on fine sprucewood.
The keys are cold
against my fingertips
as they drift mindlessly,
creating song.