Arch your fingers, clasp your palm, touch the keys as if pulling at the heartstrings of a lover; back in the looming financial crash of 2007 when a family bought a piano and a new house, and a young girl ached Chopin.
With your hand out of the window and the car on the motorway, talon hands, poised, feel the air as a shotput; smooth, round, permanent - oxygen bubbles puppeteering pale fingertips until the window goes up and the radio is heard again.
Speaking three languages, la mort, la mort, la mort; D – E – A – D the keys cannot spell ‘childhood’, but her fingers reach more than an octave now (her thumb still ******).
Chopin welcomes her to her final decomposition; her piano, dusty and blooming with flowers through each key, plays discords that don’t quite make a funeral march.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.