I didn't know you were a piano player.
This fact only came up while my palms burned
with anticipation as I reached out into the stillness,
searching for your hands. I found them beneath sheets
and cold promises, where the fingers were dancing
and the nails were scratching and you were looking to have a good time.
You're good at playing the blues.
A man by the name of Skye told me you knew all about snatching secrets
from the moon, and as I felt the scars and scratches along your callous, quick fingers, I knew this was true.
Your eyes never looked down at what you played, which is probably how they ended up this way: scarred and burned and stained a dark red. I
never found out why you liked to play music so dark that it did
nothing but leave bruises, ones you tried to wash away with
old wash cloths and chardonnay. Or why your nickname was *****
even though your mother named you Vivian. Or why you sold me those
tickets to that band you dreamed of seeing. Or why your hands started
shaking whenever you were near me. Or why I'm in love with your fingers,
and all the notes they've played and touched and stole.
I don't mind the fact that their skin is burdened with slices of depressed,
quiet peace, or the way your eyes turn blue even though they're supposed
to be green.
I can only hope in the wake of all these sad revelations, that your fingers will remain on those black and white keys, and tomorrow you'll still be playing.
I've got a terrible fascination with hands
