297/ August 1, 2011 - Demo 1

The boy I like is playing the piano as I work. There’s a tenderness here I cannot touch yet— the song in the air vanishes when I try to hold it, gone like a wisp of smoke. A cigarette dangles precariously on his lip and he watches only his hands as he hits the notes: a) this is a song about happiness, b) this is a song about the happiness you stole, c) this is a song about happiness I will restore.

I’ve been with guys who made music before, but not like this. You can take a guitar anywhere, pocket a tune without breaking a sweat, but a piano requires a sense of place and steadiness; it asks of you the security of grace. I listen to him play and think: these are things I want for myself.

It’s almost six in the morning and I’m thinking of whether he’s thinking of sleep. (One day, I’ll write about you the way you make music. Or I hope, I do hope.)

Posted 10 months ago with 13 notes

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   really good at it.

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