Two notes on a piano with the damper depressed ring in the back room. You heard me come in and stopped playing at C and F. The tones drifted through the house on a current of chilled and recycled air. My feet crush a path through the carpet to where you are.
There is a similarity in all looks given from a piano bench--body slightly turned, head tilted up, hands still on the keys.
Maybe she was the one of your dreams. But you woke up. I was there. We stayed up all night, every night. You couldn't go back. We kept the city lit til dawn. Then, one day, some day rather indistinguishable by any other factor, you fell asleep again.
The black standard desktop keyboard feels like steel under my fingers. Time moves so slow when you're future's unknown. Nothing has a taste. The light merges with berber carpeting and office furniture circa 1993 creating a brown-blue halogen smear. The temperature gauge is trapped in a constant season of artificial, indoor fall. Stacks of neatly organized paper stand interspersed with pens and post-it pads, and used styrofoam coffee cups. I want to lay my head down. next to yours.