the pianist downstairs plays a tune each evening, fingers so graceful as they dance on the keys. I press my ear to the floorboards; pretending that the symphony is played just for me.
the pianist downstairs, he sends vibrations through my home… each night a whole orchestra joins in my mind. others might have thought it a nuisance but it’s the sound that I like, the warmth and the feeling, coexistence entwined.
the pianist downstairs is never out of key, each note pre planned, each sound so refined that it feels holy. I find the right spot, sit with my glass of wine at the edge of the room, the edge of my break up so raw, the music heals me slowly.
the pianist downstairs, his music gets lesser… so many evenings now, I hear nothing at all. I peep through his window when I’m walking to my car, I wait longer for the mail, I crash with my bin bags, for just a glimpse, I stall.
the pianist downstairs isn’t a pianist anymore, he doesn’t play a note, not morning, afternoon or night. I listen more carefully for hope of reprieve but I don’t hear music anymore, not even a note to recite.
the pianist downstairs, midnight one June day, gets back on the piano and begins a dramatic play. the notes are angry and harsh, quiet and sad, wake me from my sleep and in my delusional state, I think it’s not bad. .
I rub sleep from my eyes, take my normal position… wonder what caused this sudden lack of inhibition. each note he plays, so harsh on each key… sounds like a symphony that might just be for me.
we stay up all night, me and the pianist downstairs, put the world to rights through the music that he doesn’t realise he shares. when he plays his final night, it feels like a shatter… like this is the last moment that the music might matter.
the pianist downstairs, i never see him again, but ill always remember the way that he played. for a moment or two, the world was less lonely… if only he’d known
