When it rains, do the cracked tips of your fingers itch to play? The secret between creator and created overwhelming. You, piano man, live. Empty slowly full letting go but never fully going. Sunburn on your back, music in your ear, I will never understand life as you do.
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, memory loss is impossible to the sense of smell:)
ancient perfume box left somewhere in a classic loft opened moments in a meet to an old of an old sweet memory in a tape on a leash in fear like a flashback of brief to four years disclose the good not the sad never the bad already made sure to wear on the days of happy in mere and now the odor smells a swift of colors once in each while go back a little in miles a tickle to the nose something out of Beethoven's ears souvenirs the precious chandeliers things the mind randomly chose several pasts when my pen couldn't write and the piano served a beam of light in an ocean sinking deep with no motion escapes from each New Year's mistake for the lifetime spaces of the turn from the tackling faces pink floral promises of better opposites fragranced to keep a stay afraid a glass would slip away
two adjacent piano keys yelled over each other for a moving spotlight, a crinkle of the eyes, and a sweet, tender smile. instead, their noise made ears beg for peace until eyes glanced away, and they were left alone with their discordant sounds.