The Piano

 

I always thought that music was my thing. My little escape from life. My piano was my everything, my relief from my thoughts, and my escape from reality.

 

Mine.

 

Nobody else could touch it without me feeling sad. Like it was a part of me. My very soul, torn from me and placed in the corner of the living room, just another part of the furniture.

 

Mine.

 

People hammered at its keys. Bashing out broken chords like fragments of my memories. Each key screaming for my touch again, to soothe and take away the pain others gave it. They laughed loudly.

 

Mine.

 

Each melody a story, each key an emotion that fits so well. Each rhythm flowing quickly to the mechanical metronome beat of my heart. My feelings flowing into the music itself.

 

Mine.

 

Whoever played it tore out my soul and made it their own. It broke me into pieces, just hearing the notes. I was a chasm, the music flowing outwards instead of in. Draining me of life.

 

Mine.

 

Then you came. You pressed a key, so lightly. Carefully. You played a chord, and I smiled, honestly and wholly. The chasm filled, so light and freely. I sat beside you, and played a scale. You recognised every note, I could see it in your eyes.

 

Mine.

 

 

You sit there and play my heart and soul.

I hope this duet lasts forever.