The Piano

The piano sits before me in formal attire
Waiting for me to press its keys
And stir the guttural emotions it longs for

It waits for me, as it always will
And cries its own melancholy melody
That it created solely for me
As its mascara runs down white keys

I hear it sigh in relief from my touch
As I glide my hand through the dust
How long I have neglected it
Its rusty hope creaks when I sit

I gently lay my fingertips on ivory faces
And it waits in baited breath
Until I gently pat the lid and whisper
“Not today”

--xoxo,
Imaginarist