I’m expected today, to write about my relationship with another art form. I know few art things, so I shall attempt this.
Your black and white tinge summarizes my feelings for you perfectly,
So grey, I don’t know where to place you.
As a child you enamoured me,
My parents made sacrifices for me to enjoy your cacophony,
And my uncle first placed you in my hands.
I remember the weight of expectation placed upon me,
To make you light up with my fingers and my touch,
I remember the public performances gone awry,
Soon, I knew my talent wasn’t much.
Then we moved cities,
You reappeared in a new avatar,
I learned how to serenade you,
And with each new touch, you played to my tune,
You were my muse, and I, was in love.
Soon, however, I learned that society
Found curves and strings sexy,
You had neither, and I assuaged myself of your beauty.
I longed however, to hold another in my hand,
Whose tune was on the radio, daily.
I must admit to you today, I carried this ambition through,
Found an instrument that appreciated my left-handed dexterity,
He felt different and unique,
But then the strings cut me,
My finger, and my heart,
And I longed for your love once more.
So I sat at my stool,
Crying, like a fool,
Found old classics to win you back.
Accepting me once more,
For that I’m eternally grateful.
But today, I long for another’s touch,
Smaller, more portable,
One I can perform with, without much.
Our relationship will continue to be complicated,
As I discover more on my journey.
Please know, however, you’ve got a special place in my heart,
For piano, you helped me write this story.