They sit back to back

Each in their own world

Her swift slices

-Scratchy and shrill

His nimble fingers

-Connected and flowing

Two juxtaposed melodies

That together soon fit like a puzzle

But for now one does not hear the other

For now they continue like the other is not there

And I sit between

My boyfriend and best friend

Silently observing so

I wish I had a fraction of the music they possess

Will's face creases as he plays

He's sight-reading I can tell

Because of the way his fingers slip, but never clumsily, upon the ivory keys

Chords and distant songs

And he murmurs to himself as he scribes in a light pencil every other note

His legs swaying

And Saoirse looks confused, setting down her violin and pretends to play the fingerings

And groans in frustration

My art-my writing too- is their music

His piano my pen

Her bow my sketches

Their violin and piano my paper

And I'm enthralled by this world of music

So happy and content

Music is so utterly beautiful

Just like the people who play

Within half an hour, people gather

And by the time I regretfully leave

It's a gathering of friends

There's will and Cleo- at the piano

They speak in words that are English

Yet at the same time, it's not

It's quite it's own language

One that falls deaf to my ears in discord

And I enjoy the way my mind aches

Over in the corner are Saoirse and Micky

They are having a 'my instrument is bigger than your instrument' bicker

Micky wins when he pulls out his cello

Paulo pulls out his sax and squeaks out the notes Will is playing

The Yemi brothers and Spring keep the beat on an assortment of things that they substitute as drums

All of us- four grades- and we relax in perfect unity

I go home

They say you paint a picture

With music

So why can't it go the other way as well?

Why can't I paint arpeggios of blue?

Make a crescendo with a grayscale

Lacromsa with shades of rose and crimson

Minuets on a blank slated canvas

A forte and piano with the colors of light and dark blue

Rhapsody in warm hues

Chords in complementary colors

And paint a picture for a symphony

That makes my spine tingle just the same?

My band director says he tastes pitches

Other can smell or feel them

I see it as painting

A pure flute when in pitch like a quiver of a brush dipped

In just enough paint-watercolor- to leave a breathless stroke

The sax as gritty charcoal- so woody and deep that it screams the shades of black and tints of white

The oboes and clarinets, with its reluctant sounds, as timid oil pastels

Baritone in thick acrylics

And trumpets as sharp, precise markers

Who says music and art and writing are not equal

Sometimes, at music I cry

And at art I feel my throat constrict

And with writing I feel it

I feel it for all

They are all my loves, and like children

One cannot pick a favorite over the rest

But I must confess that I may not be as skilled as the next in particular places

So Saoirse will paint her pictures

And I will write my soul

And you just play that melody

Because in the end,

It's my sanity, my dear

You hold within your fingertips