Reinbert de Leeuw
Should've given Aldo Ciccolini a lesson or two
On how to play
Satie the right way.

From the eleventh floor
the world looks small
and possible

The cars
     black and white
     parked perpendicular
          to the curb
     parallel
          to each other
are keys
     ebony and ivory
    
I reach out
through the window
and play the street like a piano

Kyra is a painter, but she's colorblind.

She makes someone else's world colorful but hers is grey.

Whenever she draws in the middle of spring afternoon, she tends to whispers to the singing bird on her shoulder.

"For whom I draw still hasn't been decided, and I wish to meet my muse soon after the season's end."

Two days after spring.

She's being asked to attend her friend's rehearsal.

A pair of her brown eyes is glued to the pianist as his melody hits her right. His fingers gracefully dance in tuts, faster than anyone's breathe, but not so fast compared to Kyra's hand sketching him.

"I find my muse." She whispers in happiness. Gaze falls to the quick sketch on her hand.


She asks her friend about his name, eyes sparkles with love, so pure, so honest.

"His name is Will. He's special like you."

Her brows furrow in confusion as she skips a heartbeat.

"Special? Like me?"

"He's a pianist but he's deaf."

Long fingers, strong
as those of a pianist, maestro
entrancing as he strikes ivory
keys unleashing,
hypnotising notes gently
opening with an adagio,
softly incalzando to an allegro
keeping tempo, beating rhythm
to intimacy only awaiting,
reverberation.

Jamming her fingers into the keyboard,
You would have thought that it was elastic -
You would have thought she was digging into her soul,
Searching for something stronger than this
Broken melody.

He  waited for the bride
The bride in her holy divinity of love
The groom with his trembling heart
And the pianist with her shaking hands

Groom, blue eyed
Pianist, hazel eyed
Bride, grey eyed
Oh, how did the oceans and the soils of the earth met

The man said his vow to the bride with no divinity
For he loved truly a different lady
For his mademoiselle was the pianist
The pianist in her red dress

He truly loved the pianist
That he gave the best part of the church hers only
That the arts of the church's saints
Reflected on her skin as she played

But it was not right he knew
Oh, how torn and tortured he was
Fate and Destiny may will hinder their love
But the heart is and will always be true