It was hard to hear the quiet piano through closed doors.
I strain my ears, flush against the wall outside his room.
Some days the melody was soft and happy,
Other days the notes were melancholy and lonely.
But even for the gentlest songs,
They were sad.
They were all nameless.
Every symphony, every harmony.
All untitled masterpieces.
Maybe he wrote them down,
Maybe he recites every cord by heart.
Maybe after that concert he performs every night,
They disappear into subconscious archives.
But maybe I am over thinking this all.
After each recital,
I’ll give a silent standing ovation.
His bench will push against the carpet of his floor,
And footfalls abruptly end as he collapses into his bed.
The musician has left the stage,
Imaginary credits roll.
I take my leave,
And dream of gentle fingers once again playing.