My Piano

A pile of wood and ivory.

Her tired frame sits uncomfortably 

until I join her.

The music leaves my mind in a rush of fire,

through my veins and out of my fingertips it explodes

when I take my seat.

The two of us become one as my hands dance with her keys,

and we are at peace.

Apart from one another, the piano and I are in turmoil.

Our relationship is harmonic

It's symbiotic.

Without her,

I, too, am an exhausted pile of wood and ivory.


This poem is about: 


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