February 3rd, 2021
A chord struck at midnight makes me rethink the person I am. It's not a pretty chord, in fact, it's not even a chord at all. Someone positioned their fingers and closed their eyes, but the violence in their touch scared away the sound they wanted. How ironic to call this pianist violent. He has never once struck me, only the chords. So what changed? Why the sudden lack of structure? He unravels at the sight of me, but the flirtatious instrument always puts him back together. I've never been up this late when the piano sings. Perhaps it's only after hours when he strikes something like that. Since the violence in his fingers can't touch me, they must touch something else. So the piano sings in place of me. Yes, the piano sings in place of me.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoetryI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
