If I had 88 keys in my life
I could show you my world
Full of rain and sunshine

Let you feel my feelings
Flow with you through the river
And be together like black and white keys

But i can´t

My 55 keys wasnt enogh
To reach my song
Through your ear
To your heart

But I still love
To play with my keys.

A ghost sits beside him
on the well-worn piano bench.
Black cherry staining holds strong
against years of wear.
His seat engraved -
a small divot carved
from countless hours of diligence.
All where he lay himself
at the mercy of the keys.

Most of the time,
porcelain and ebony fingers
clutched his heart, allowing every beat to
bleed life into the music.

For it’s not him that dictates what he plays,
but what the keys see inside him.
More often than not,
a minor chord reverberates
against the practice room.

From there it’s a dance.

Fingers
     gliding,
           traipsing
up and down the length,
piecing together a melody
that speaks volumes to him alone.

Every note holds a word,
a piece of himself.
An outlet for emotions
shoved inside a shaken bottle,
finally exploding against the refrain.

Mason’s weight creaks beneath the bench.
It’s old, could probably do with replacing,
but he will never own another bench.
Worn in the wood next to him,
a smaller divot keeps him company.

Mason’s fingers leave porcelain
to run over the groove.
A little over a foot wide,
though he remembers her being much smaller.

Memories tug at the corners of his lips as
he splays his palm against the seat.
It’s likely bigger from the squirming
she’d done whilst waiting for his attention.

God, he wishes he’d paid more attention.

But some songs would forever be played in minor keys.

I remember the day I met you.
On your thirteenth birthday, in fact.
Bright smiles and a mouth full of braces,
you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

You were so eager to learn
that you’d stay up until the late hours,
keeping me company while uncovering the wonders
of each note.

“It’s time for bed,”
your mother would scold,
and we’d reluctantly say goodnight.

You came to visit though,
again and again.
In return I’d whisper in your ear,
help you learn a new language.
You picked up quickly.

When your little sister
took a pen to my leg,
you were irate.

She etched a flock of sparrows -
nine of them, to be exact.
But I liked it.
It made me feel loved.

Until one day, you left.

Your final song is one I will never forget:
Clair de Lune.

In the aftermath,
every once in awhile someone would spot me and
tell me how beautiful I was,
but then wistfulness
turned to pity
as neglect took over.

Abandoned, I fared the elements
by myself for twelve winters
without your touch.
I stretched and I waned,
growing old prematurely.
My tune turned melancholy.

But even twelve years hadn’t erased
the memory of your fingerprints
on my keys.

Your wife found me again at an estate sale.
She shipped me home for your thirtieth.

You didn’t recognize me at first,
but by habit you reached down
and felt for the sparrows.

/I found you./

I said it was not meant for me,
But what did I mean?
For any youth, any love,
Whose prey who might be,
On whom you’d lean,

In your semi-corseted skirt,
Or dressed full fig.,
Stalking into town,
Shocking men in wigs,
Luring them into false love,
As others had been?

Would you capture me,
Chaining my soul to your heart,
So I must carry on playing
At your command?
I see your dress under the piano,
And your boots and pantaloons;
The piano is not my voice,
Though you insist it is.

I shot a drunken man for you,
Which made me more your slave.
You woke urges I suppressed,
Too strong for one so frail.
With words you pushed me
But caused music to pour
From me as love did.

A storm of disapproval raged all round
Our Paris nest of love and art,
You came and went like a soldier, shielding us,
And at home you urged me on,
To impromptu inventions,
Yet causing us to depart.

Packed into a cabochon,
You shanghaied me,
Away to Majorca
And the wintry sea.
Your searing love and the island’s cold
Were too much for me,
And I escaped with my art.

His heart is
Like an old piano
He waits under the dust
Quiet, lonely and shy
Until she plays him
And makes his strings vibrate.

She love the black and white tiles
Listend and loves to play the piano
Many don’t know how she feels
Through her songs she plays
Every key she presses
I always knew how she feels
Because in every music note
I could feel her hidden feelings.

Streaks of gray blot out my nothing.
Piano strokes key into the sound,
Key into my mind. Strings me along
With fevered pitches and staggering lows.
Till passed out in color I lie, drowning.