On the days that I do not love you
my love looks nothing like love.
In fact, it looks much like
in between state:
A half-working key,
an almost soundless note
pressed against my finger-tips.
I have always loved you.
You have seen many a day of woe with me
but also seen tears fall in glee.
The joy of playing the right note
at just the
But still, you have seen broken friendships
and puffy eyes become transformed
into melodies and lullabies
which you’d sing softly to me
But, it does still annoy me that you can’t play
And my anger is something I cannot hide from you
because I cannot hide anything from you.
You know this finger,
a wealth of DNA that’s been
coiled around your
and white fists
for almost a decade.
I’m writing this as if you are dying
because you are kind of dying.
You are breathing
But you are breaking.
Your keys have sunken in so far
that not even the
hardest of presses and strongest of wills
can bring them back to life.
And I know I don’t play you that often.
And we’ve grown so distant over the years.
But it has taken you breaking to make me realise
how whole you make me feel.
And I will love you,
I will play your silent keys,
and dream o’ those nights of youth:
piano lessons every Tuesday from 5pm to 6pm,
the soft cats in the living room mats
in the teacher’s home
who believed that you and I are were nothing more than
an untold love story,
a chanced encounter
never fated to be finished.
And it was. Then.
But you were still there:
the centrepiece of my living room.
And if anyone dares to touch you
(like all those babies who think it is
acceptable to make love to you with
heavy palm presses
gentle finger kisses)
I will cut them.
Because I love you.
And thank you
so much for loving me too.