baby grand

The room bathes arpeggio and macchiato;

resonates with a decade's passionate caress.

Secretive, yet declared; impossible to know,

my presence begins to whisper, gently confess.

My hands hold onto the candlelit melodies,

cradle the keys with flame and desperate longing.

The heartbeat ripples beneath them, yearning to please,

begging me to find my way, let my siren sing.

This is a practiced, comfortable relationship,

my palms finding the patterns, their familiar ways.

Yet, ever afraid, still vulnerable fingertips,

shake from the geometric, resonant displays.

And I know its beautiful, soulful and refined;

enough to speak about, confidently fill a room.

But confidence defied, Im afraid to be defined. 

Afraid to show so much soul for you to consume.

Because this is all of me, my whole heart,

my inner world let out into the open air.

More than my wit, my travels, being smart,

this is the child, the man, the pieces I never share.

I am the instrument, polished on the floor,

decorating a room, expensive and adored.

You will not play me, you will hear no more,

my judgement condemns you: unskilled, ignored.