Ode to my broken piano

On the days that I do not love you

my love looks nothing like love.

In fact, it looks much like

not quite

the opposite

but an

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

right time.

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

E5,

E4,

and C3

anymore.

And my anger is something I cannot hide from you

because I cannot hide anything from you.

You know this finger,

these finger-tips

a wealth of DNA that’s been

coiled around your

black wrists

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

combined

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,
always.

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.
I quit.

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
 rather than
 gentle finger kisses)

I will cut them.

Because I love you.

And thank you

thank you

so much for loving me too.