by lexi
i cant write as well as he could play piano
but it’s always been like this
i write the movement of the morning
the slow tick of the clock heavy eyelids and leftover vodka
spilling cough syrup on the obituary section
of the newspaper
but he plays and it’s mutable air, the language of aphrodite
jittery hands and marble countertops, the one time you tried paintball
and it left bruises on your insides and colors in your eyes
i write and its bitten fingernails, leaky faucets
volcanic ash on your tongue
its the sound of the keyboard you've tuned out
its the look in your eyes when you listen to your date drawl about his second cousin once removed
its forgetting to turn out the lights
but he plays and its hues of soft magenta
lips tracing bodies like perfect stencils and he keeps playing his piano keys and he plays and he plays while i write
this stupid fucking poem and i still
i cant write as well as he could play piano
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