different pianos.
the sunlight and your fingers dance among leaves and over keys like lovers on the evening lawn at a dinner party that won't be finished until the last tired guest drains his glass and staggers home. leaving you both alone on the porch. words and mouths spill into hair and over cheeks like a thick bearded musician sits in his chamber at the piano and won't stop playing until his wrists sink lower than the tips of his fingers that click like the scissors with which his wife once used to trim his hair. and as she tenderly swept the locks away he would rise and walk to the corner of the room where sat that very black box through which he would speak to her. that man was never much for talking but he could compose more beautiful words than she had ever heard. and as the noise from their mouths slips beneath the linen he forms a silent smile. his left hand drifting over the empty seat beside him. for he finds as much comfort in that portion of the bench as those lovers do in their kiss. and between you and me. love and music are just different instruments i have come to appreciate equally.