Sometimes a sad song runs through me.

Knocking the dust off the hammers.

Even as the wood splinters, staying in perfect tune.

But who can say for whom the song is for.

An unseen eye or to stay off the age.

At least to protect what good form is left.

***

A dusty piano sits in a corner. Perhaps by a window, but going nowhere. Dark grain worn down to nothing. No sign of polish left.

***

Sad is not the only melody I know.

Every flavor of the sound spectrum touched at some point from A to G.

Nothing neglected.

Strings attended to with love.

Even the keys I hate made sure to hit correctly.

All of it in proper place.

***

The inside of the piano a far cry from the outside. Pristine and polished to a shine. Regularly refreshed so everything works perfectly. That is the part that truly matters after all.

***

I can get sick of certain songs, but it is so hard to switch it up.

It is then I remember that I was never a composer.

I am that degrading piano.

Left to fall away visually but working perfectly.

I crave those delicate and accurate fingers.

Dancing down the side of my tired brain.

***

The only place there is no dust on the outside of the piano, is on the keys. Perfectly dusted and left with warm fingerprints. White and black keys sticking out like treasure from a snowbank. The only place where activity is wanted or needed. The rest is just a fancy box after all.