he played for me,
"I don't do this".

he did.

I hear, not see,
the fingers dance
a familiar tune
so competent but
not quite confident.

there is a story here.

it's one I know only
in my own twisted
version, aspersions
received over again.

how dare they.

I want to slap away
every hand that
criticized yours. I want
to kiss each fingertip
and whisper
"you've done so well"

play me another.