piano

i miss my piano, sometimes.

i was never exactly good at it, except i was, like contest-winningly good at it at eight years old,

but i looked at the keys and i felt nothing but indifference; i played bach and schumann and mozart,

and i played them well, but i never knew what that meant.

my hands went through the motions while my brain was in other places,

and as soon as i thought about what i was doing, i froze.

whenever i am home in florida i sit down at my piano,

and i stumble through fur elise and moonlight sonata and so many ecosaisses.

i can barely read music but my fingertips remember things;

occasionally i close my eyes and my body cooperates, and something beautiful comes out of my hands.

i bow my head and trace my fingers over the keys;

as always, i have nothing to say.