keys

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