that sat by your bay window,
was the most beautiful part,
of your simple, yet warming room.
it wasn’t the newest,
or the best i’ve ever seen-
but the sounds that poured out,
from the tender press of the strings,
could bring me to my knees,
and the endless tunes,
just made me never want to leave.
I would run to that room,
press my fingers on each key,
I never once stopped gushing about it,
to the point where everyone grew curious
I took a few faces to the room,
with a reluctance to share this beauty,
with which I felt I had intimacy.
but I needn’t ever have worried,
for each turned and said,
they’d heard better keys,
in the school canteen.
I didn’t care though,
I saw such beauty in your piano,
which sang gracefully to my ears.
so I played and I played,
through sunshine to moonlight,
with such devotion and consistency.
It was only as winter passed,
and the dew dripped,
down your flaking window panes,
and hit the pianos body,
that everything began to change.
the wood began to rot,
on the left side of its torso,
but I swore it was still beautiful,
for it was the sweet melodies,
that were so special to me.
and when the keys began to stick,
I shook my head at you defiantly,
when you suggested we throw it out.
I never stopped playing,
and even when I noticed,
that the melodies weren’t the same,
and the pitch was all wrong,
I still couldn’t justify,
through the questioning of others,
through opportunities of new models,
when you tried to release my hand,
when I found out I wasn’t sole composer.
but my hands, let go, froze,
the day I saw her close her eyes,
her hands pressing each key delicately,
yet so surely, so confidently,
for I knew that despite,
I never caressed those keys,
with such intensity.
it’s only then,
when I let you take it,
that I saw the dents,
and as I pressed my finger down,
one last, final time,
I heard a sound that told me,
finally, definitively, decisively,
that I had never properly played this piano.
He had been playing me.