Cold scraping. Silence.
Sprinkling piano.
Then, a blur. Blade across the ice, frosted silver.
Face lost in sweet, sad abandon. That ten-to-five lull.
Astor Piazzolla was no fool. Knew just where to strike.
And now, she takes the handle of his blade from him,
softens the blow.
So soft that it feels like a hug, and there is no sound. Not anymore.
Only scraping. The good kind.
For a second, breaths are held. Billowing folds count the seconds down.
A single note on the piano, a final cushioned slam, and it's done.
But a softened blow will still deal damage. And damage it does. The good kind.
YOU ARE READING
A Touch of Wonder
PoesíaA book of poetry filled with thoughts, experiences, and emotions. "As I walk down the slippery street, My face streaming with tears, The sadness can barely be sustained. But you suddenly kiss away my fears, My dear umbrella in the rain."
