.first movement.

There used to be such a connection between

you and me

But now it's gone

And I don't know what to do.

the days seem to be blending in

With each other

(hello. good morning. good bye. good night.)

I never knew that I measured time

In piano days.

.second movement.

Leaving the house tired

And coming home


Nothing to spill my emotions over

(over romantic nocturnes)

to make sweet love too.

(soft and slow)

or rage at

(with an uncontrolled polonaise. crescendoing with fury until the hands ached and had to be soaked in hot water.)


making those moonlight confessions

half awake in the dark

as i murmured out my fears and hopes and dreams

while playing a m a z i n g grace.

oh, how sweet it sounded.

And now

when my hands

Flicker over the keys

It does not start a flame

That sets

the world

a b l a z e (like it use too.)

But leaves a smudge

Of my finger tips

On smooth ivory.

like a sin.

.third movement.

I guess there's a boundary now


Banished from the musical world

Full of passion

moonlight sonatas


sweet serenades.

Nothing to dance to

Nothing to sing to

Just sitting


Hoping that my fingers

Won't lie motionless

Against the keys.

against the need.


I used to think that

Each note had an

a n g e l

Tucked underneath


to be coaxed

To sing a melody

Written on my fingertips

In black ink

That spelt out


But I guess you never know

When the apocalypse


(I guess it hit me three months ago in a quiet kind of internal chaos that ate me raw until all I saw were skin and bones.with my h e a r t missing.)

I press

silent prayer wavering on my lips.


But all it leaves is

An unsatisfying

Blare of dissatisfaction

Making me



Head on collision

Pressing down angel throats

(a chorus of broken cries)

it echoes off the walls

Into my mind

Like a painful reminder

embranded on my flesh

As my head crashes onto/into you

(and I wish I could say that-that I saw spangled stars or claire de lunes in my shaken reverie but all I saw was darkness and blank stares as it all came rushing back again.)

why did you stop? why did you quit? why did you let go?


'i don't know.'

i whisper (short of breath)

spilling my answer into the silence

waiting for

a n y t h i n g.

And my blood simmers with

dull rage

(Soaked in misery)

And I still don't have the heart to play.