Skin on bone
Touch, sound,
She sits,
A piano bench,
Old, having supported
Many students before her.
She touches the wet
Keys, her fingers traveling
Across the familiar,
Paths she has carved,
Leaving tiny calluses
From frequent passing.
Drip,
Her heart breaks,
She hits the wrong cord.
Continuing the journey,
Slowing her pace,
Breathing steadily.
Drip,
She gets the melody wrong.
Her heart breaks a little more,
But she doesn’t stop,
Although she slows her flow
Until it seems like a deafening silence
Fills the wide gaps
Between each note of sound.
Pang.
Silence.
Pang.
Silence.
Drip.
She pauses,
And doesn’t touch another key.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip
Pang.
Silence.
She’s lost.