Music, to me, has always been fascinating. A world that is detached from ours, beyond our reach, one we can only get the barest sense of if we strain our ears and open our hearts.

Listening is easy, I could do it all day-- but playing… Well, that’s a different story.

That must’ve been why I was so taken with him. So very very sure that I was in fact, special to the one who held my tender heart hostage. To the one who could play. To the Piano Man.

Watching those dark fingers hit the keys, slender and long, I could feel the music dance on my skin as it raised my hair. How did he do that? Make the music?  It was beautiful and distant, like capturing feelings in a bottle and pouring them on paper, then reading them out loud again.

How did he play my heart like those chords, tapping, holding, letting me fade out?

The music is louder now

I am no instrument, no black and white for him to play

I am shades of gray, and I don’t want to make any more music for my Piano Man.

Crescendo.

Please, I begged

Stop hitting my keys, the notes are screams, it’s music in your ears but pounding in mine.

It’s not black and white, it’s black and it’s blue and it’s purple

I never want to play again

No more music

No more sound

Let it be quiet

Stop playing that awful music

Behind my eyelids.