Piano plays softly in the background of her expressionless face; eighty eight keys wrapped so unforgivingly in her hair. She fades to nothing, intertwines herself with the lowest key, played pianissimo; so quiet we need to lean forward to hear past the building struggle of the other chaotic eightyseven; she is supporting an amalgamating masterpiece without fear in her eyes. I have never been given the chance to respect as much as her. I wait for the day she snaps. Repetition tinted with the smell of her blood tells me what exactly stains ivory in the quiet of the definition of the word “over”. I wonder when she’ll be so over. I’ve never seen her once break character as pain crossed with envy around her, I hate that she watches the children of our world starve, whilst she eats none herself, so I am in no right to be mad; it’s so hard not be mad these days. I wait for a day she looks down, a day when her eyes brim with tears of her own, heavy and useless after being so statue. It’s because it must be, must build to something unachievable at the top of the ribbon draped tree so we strive and forget the conditions we sign when we fall. I imagine a world where she taps her own keys, keeps no time to her own will. I long for a day when she can spell the music with her screams and my concept of monarchy is marred by the pure beauty of undoubted chaos. She is part of no background and she taste the wind on the tip of her tongue when she tangles her hair, and she can once again learn to smile; what on earth is so expected of her that I dare need to ponder this? I’ve spent every night and moment praying to gods I don’t belive in to give her wings; so scared to fasten one’s of my own in case she falls. She needs no net to fall. We’ll smash the keys, chip the ivory, learn to breathe, leave our shoes stray on the floor. We’ll feel the sand on our feet and sing to guitar; I am none the wiser than she. Let’s forget from whence we came and feel the elements of the moment in our heart racing chests and beg our brains to breathe past our laughter. This is the year to be reborn; I’ll speak when i’m not spoken to and break the fourth wall, love how the sky tells me to and smile at night. Together, I love the feeling of summer. Piano plays low like pain in the back of her head both diegetic and non diegetic in her storybook world; I dare you to teach me how to open the pages. She is background; rethought.