We are here now.

0.6: A broken tune.

I search the room for fuel.

I need to burn the traces of it.

A mad rush takes over me as I grasp the handle tightly.

I remember being this driven by rage the last time.

The same fury burning my heart, as I see myself become

The same monster that I used to fear.

All monsters are humans, aren't they?

I find myself smirking at the thought, as I reach into the pocket of my coat.

A turmoil of anger, despair surges in me as I strike the match,

The image of the menacing flame permanently imprints itself in my brain.

The flame goes off as quickly as I light it,

And I can't tell how, until my eyes meet hers

I know then; it was her sweet breath.

My breathing echoes through the silence in my head.

Loud and restless as my shaking hands.

But her smile is louder, overflowing with light.

It is the light that accompanies me to sleep every night.

Not the city light refracting through my bedroom windows.

Not the dim one from my bedside lamp.

Not the light that entered through the tiny window and marked the wooden floor.  

A different, pale, almost pure light.

The invisible one.

She walks away wordlessly. 

Her composed gait looming over my puny form, 

Shaking, on the verge of breaking.

She takes her spot on the wooden floor,  under the window

Her features bright and clear as stars in a cloudless sky.

She picks up a broken instrument

From the many lying in a dead heap on the ground.

She turns away, and faces the light

Too bright for my eyes that shun anything which gives life.

The sound sends chills through my nerves.

This is not the sound of brokenness, nor of pain or despair.

This is the sound of music, 

The sound my ears have craved for years.

Paralyzed, I gaze on, dazed, hypnotized, mesmerized

My heart moves to the strums and the licks.

And I think I would have gazed on forever,

If she did not turn and smiled a powerful, winning beam.

Possessed, hypnotized, subduing my hitched breaths, 

I walk to the glorious, broken piano again.

And even if the strings are broken.

And the keys don't produce the perfect pitch.

I watch in awe as my fingers glide

Effortlessly across the ashen keys.

The sound of two broken instruments blend in a marvelous symphony;

The most beautiful harmony my parched heart could yearn for.

The strings are broken still.

And so are we.

The melody is discordant, recurrent rasps and scratches.

Just like the scars in our souls, when they meet.

Yet we play on, our broken tune.

In hope of something new.