Friday, November 4, 2011

numb fingers

 She plays these keys like others play the piano. They are her instrument. They are her soul. Her keys patter late into the night. Listening to slow jazz music. Que Sera. Incense burns. Thoughts wander to the sun. Will it rise? How will the coffee smell this morning? Strong? Most likely.

She pours her soul onto these keys. She can’t play a piano. Can’t sing her heart out. Breaks glasses when she does. So she spells out the emotions. She puts them into print. Twelve point font on a white page. Therapy. Or something less expensive. She can write haikus-- stories-- note cards-- explaining the feeling. Giving meaning.

The keys move faster. Her fingers quicken. She's making progress here as she makes her way down the page. Learning something about fear. About faith. About progress. About movement. About stopping when the sentence is over. About stopping before its over. About making cuts. Trims. Necessary adjustments that seemed fitting. Seamed fitting.

What a fool one has to be,
To think that things wouldn't change.
To think that she is smarter
Than she seems.
To think that the real world
Would merge with her dreams.
To think that things were just
as they seemed.

Her hands can’t hold on. It’s too cold. She’s got no gloves on, and her nails are turning white. So she sticks them in her pockets and walks home. alone. Gives a smile and a cold shoulder to the shadows of her past. She has the strength. She knows some things just don't last.

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