The man breaks in front of a piano as his fingers accidentally plays a key and the sound pushes the wine glass onto the silent ground and even if it breaks; nobody hears and nobody cares and nobody looks and nobody loves him like the way she did, but he keeps playing, the man he keeps playing and jamming each key into the strings, but now he's confused about the music, maybe he's playing the sound of every moment she made his heart jump as she hugged him from behind and cupped his eyes with her tiny hands and the man breaks, he keeps playing like the music never stopped and it's still lovely and it's still beautiful with every last breath; the man breaks in front of a piano as his arms are reaching out for hers and she's dancing away with another the stars are still breathing inside of his skin like she meant for him to live while slowly dying and he plays and he plays, but he laced the black piano keys with more cocaine; he'll never get the same high that is requested, her laughter his only drug, so he'll play until the white keys are bloody and bruised, but she plays his keys for him too and that wine glass was more bone than it was melted sand and he can't live forever inside of this reality, but he keeps playing and playing and playing until she finally came back with a new wine glass, and of course, of course he drinks it and the man he chokes and he's playing and he's dying to see her smile, but she's a shadow and he's been staring at a wall inside of his music room with nothing, but empty notes and dusted keys and there's not enough poison inside of that cup to keep his heart from loving her.
YOU ARE READING
Writing journal
PoetryA compilation of various little entries that I've written or that my friends have submitted. I'll give credit to those who want it. Be prepared for feels, hopeless romance, and not a lot of rhymes.
