Chopin Nocturne #2
She lays a her hand down, a caress on inhale, and tentatively pushes the key in. Memory returns, an ebbing tide revealing the silver sand below. Her left hand joins, just as hesitant, with kisses of its own. Fingertips dance, butterflies against the white ivory. The memory continues until discord; the sound sharpens and flattens, falling upon deaf tones, and the echo in the room clatters to a halt. She breathes out, remembering to cycle. Her hand strokes the surface before rippling and trying the refrain again and then again.
She is a ghost hovering over the polished black wood, white reflection staring back at her. Sad eyes lose themselves to the varnish and silver bolts that hold the pieces together, into the swirling cords and vibrations the piano harbors. All the thoughts that raged in her head cease. Peace settles like a leaf upon water's surface. Her hands play on passed the troubled refrain.
She plays wordlessly.
Her eyes have closed,
Her breath held in fermata,
the trills and tails of sound following after.
In through the nose and out through the mouth;
You'll keep tempo better.
The piece flows like a paper boat. The brook suspends it ,eddying about in circles; it teeters at the edge for a moment and sails off with a dance, only to be caught again.
The final chords are struck lavishly, satin and velveteen sounds.
Tears sit like birds in her eyes, ready to take off;
Why do I do this to myself?