There are two voids in my still-black piano eyes.

There are no words I discover.

Breathing on the inside.

Not like me to simply wait.

But stories do not move;

as thoughts do in waves.

No not as important as the keys. From which breathing inside.

In the eyes that taste

like you can see the

attic's forgotten gods. Each summer I get closer to...I could vanish completely. 
Bleeding on the inside.