Wednesday, 31 October 2012

The Piano and the Pianist.

He sought her when the lights went off. It was in the dark - a sleeping world - that the faint traces of her voice would return. Her whispers played in the cavern of his brain.

He pulls the bench closer, touches her. Carefully.

With time, many voices came and went - and hers, drowned in their lusty cacophony. She sunk like a majestic ship, always to be found again, rusting beneath the filth others had brought unto his heart.

His fingers linger, browsing through her glossy black and white.

Her timbre was never lost - they say a good musician can tell the many timbres apart, even when notes are played at the same pitch and loudness - he could always tell hers. 

In a dash, he plays her, he smiles, he is alive. She resonates.

They were like the piano and pianist. He'd have played her into a beautiful melody, she'd have drowned him in intoxicating notes. But now, they are just a broken song.

He awakes, distraught. He realises, he does not have hands.