Seventeen

the piano in the corner of the hall had grown accustomed to being alone.
underused, with each of its wires bending with age. its white and black shiny digits losing lustre, fading to the ochre of old, old paper coloured with cream shades of romance.

its life was inching past, and all it could do, was wait for someone to play god with it.

and today, someone opened the piano box.

the piano watched in expectant silence, the hesitant hands that hovered, invoking a long forgotten Beethoven or Brahms.

it smiled.

and then educated fingers drew a soul out. they glided together, over the quiet of memories stashed away for a later time. they flew, fluttered, wavered, meandered, sank, plunged
deep,
deep within a bond beyond the intrustion of words.

they rose to a crescendo:
the piano, hands, souls, shoulders, eyes, all – they were all laughing.

—

For an icecreamjunkie