Piano Bench (Something old that I never posted)

Prehaps, I am too reserved to say these things, so I write them, hoping that some inkling of understanding will transgress the page into the airwaves and a tiny vibration will meet your ear and you will sense my heart. You see, I have so many things to say, and I know that I can, it is imperative. And my fear is I will let this memory pass through me and drift away without ever saying what it has meant. You are now apart of the inifinite web that binds us all, and you are part of me, or at least who I am right now. Because, I am always changing my colors, a chameleon, but I am the same in structure: I have two eyes (the color of which I can never quite put my finger on), a nose, a mouth with lips, often playing a soft smile. I have a heart and it beats, and if such things as "souls" exist, I imagine I have one of those as well. Its somewhere above my stomach and intestines, but below my diaphragm and when I breathe sometimes, I feel it rising and falling. And when I chance to stumble upon a moment worth writing about I feel it rattle about, trying to break free, and break out of its fleshy cell. Incarcerated within a human creature. I think, I wonder, "will she ever be free"?

And then I realize it.

I sit in that moment, and in the future, I think I will sit again in that same moment, and watch it play like a picture show, before my eyes, and in them your face will flicker and reflect.

And it is now that I think of all those faces that come together to make up what I most desire, and to formulate a human ideal of what I need.

I think.

Here I am now, back to where I started, at that point of hazy delerium, where the day fades into the night. I remember now: Gentle fingers playing vehement chords on an old piano, and my eyes closed, I listen, while each note shakes and cracks the holding cell inside me. Just above my stomach, and right below my ribs. It rattles and bends, the bars break. I am released. She is. You bend over the piano, sometimes your eyes are closed, and your fingers move in the light, and every so often they glance up at me, and I am startled, It is hard for me to stare at your eyes for too long, because I see them waving back at mine. The red of your glasses reflects your hands and the keys in your sleepy eyes. There is so much contrast and I take a photo with my mind, and think that I wish I could hold you still so I might draw you, or photograph you, and have you as tangible, raw moment, being who you are. I wonder if you'd even let me.

This is the film reel in my head.

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(this is only part of a short memoir)