Her hands,
so callused from hours and hours spent laboring over the ivory keys to her heart.
They used to be white,
but after days of turning pages and pages of crisp white paper,
they have faded and worn.
Her hands,
twisting together in nervousness,
as she approaches, then turns away,
his eyes too full of life to contemplate.
Trying so desperately to write the mournings of a love-sick heart,
then scrunching white note-paper into balls tossed in a can.
Pounding the juxtapositional keys to express pent up overwhelming thoughts that she's drowning in.
Her hands,
trembling as her lips touch his and the dam finally breaks.
Brushing her glossy locks out of her eyes,
so she can see to play another bar that describes everything she's kept inside.
Shaking as the golden band slides carefully on,
and the smiling eyes of his make her swallow hard once,
then again,
as her knees weaken,
the white dress rustles,
and I Do echoes through her blushing ears.
Her hands,
squeezing his so tightly that their knuckles turn white,
as the white-coated Grim Reaper holds the X-ray up higher.
"Can you see? Right there."
Oh, yes, she can see perfectly,
as her hands shake and drum out her song on her thigh.
Her hands,
pressed tight against her mouth as the cold,
ashen face of his passes hers in a coffin of granite and lost emotions.
Her hands,
reaching, no, grabbing, scrabbling for the snow-white handkerchief embroidered with small golden clefs.
And fluttering over her eyelids,
as the feeling drains.
Her hands,
rubbing her forehead as the headaches come on faster,
tighter,
more distracting.
Never touching a piano key again,
she loses her intrigue and the color fades.
Her hands,
shaking open the bottles,
one after the other after the other,
spilling small green capsules of fake numbness and joy into her chalky hand.
Until that day...
that day when her hands shook too much,
the headache was too strong,
his memory too sharp,
and the entire bottle disappeared.
Her hands,
now folded neatly in the earth beside him.
Where she always wanted to lie.