From the eleventh floor
the world looks small
black and white
to the curb
to each other
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."
I've been pressing
The sustain pedal
To let the sound of us
I didn't take note
That no matter how long
I held on to the right keys,
Or how perfect I read
The entire score,
Or how hard I stepped
On that pedal,
No sound emerged.
The piano wasn't just broken:
You weren't playing anymore.
No pianist would break their beloved instrument. Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding between the pianists. I portray a relationship (genetic, friendship, love) here as the instrument. The sound I explained is how a duet on the piano is.
Long fingers, strong
as those of a pianist, maestro
entrancing as he strikes ivory
hypnotising notes gently
opening with an adagio,
softly incalzando to an allegro
keeping tempo, beating rhythm
to intimacy only awaiting,
On music and intimacy
I slam the keys and shiver still,
They make me shake and break,
These keys they don't just make a sound,
It's memories they make.
Yet once a while I'll sit upright,
And play the keys so slow,
But this time there aren't memories,
It's just a concert show.
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
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
inspired by a friend's story. "The Pianist" by J.S
She ran towards the uncompleted music room
She stood at the corner with her red dress
The corner where the tall windows were
The corner where the piano was
With a touch, she played her heart
Her heart of cries
The music room was complete with her tears
inspiration from a short story by a friend of mine. "The Pianist" by J.S