i never liked to play the piano;
but i still remember my young piano days with
a youthful me sat giggling on a black leather stool,
hands barely touching an upright organ.
my first piano teacher was a woman of skin made
of porcelain and a heart made of music notes.
there are still days where i remember
the soft jaded colour of her eyes,
the gentle curve of her hands,
and my stomach twists and turns as the substance of music
will never carry the same scent and love as my
blossoming,
euphoric and
innocent piano days.
nowadays, i wonder what melodic, harmonious tune she's stirring.
i wonder if there's an organ in heaven.
