Wrote this about a year ago...

You always had a power and a way with words,
and your finger's caressed keys that could open doors,
into the souls of the coldest hearts,
playing songs start to finish, and finish to start.

You began our melody in the middle of the piece,
forgetting the beginning, and the boundaries to keep.
I was a piano, you said, that you'd been dying to touch,
a powerful creation, that you leaned on like a crutch.

Your slim fingers pressed into my ivory skin,
the black keys the bruises where your fingers had been.
You knew how to play the most astounding tunes,
and our love was the most complicated melody you knew.

So you played me well and amazed the world,
with your delicate notes and powerful chords.
I was the tool that you used without a care,
and you, the craftsmen, with a masterpiece to share.

But oh, my love, you should know by now,
use one thing too much, and you'll run it to the ground.
Every string needs tightened, or the notes sound wrong,
every key tended, or they'll chip by dawn.

But play me whenever, however you like,
your fame is a flame that will go out like a light.
There's no room for your tunes in history's aging heart,
your songs are worn out classics that will be buried in the dirt.

And I, you see, am the invincible sort,
with delicate notes and powerful chords.
For pianos can be fixed with careful hands,
but you, my friend, are a fading musician.