| For a love of the Piano | ||
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The young man walked into the polished room. He did not acknowledge anyone else's presence, but kept his gaze on the piano on the far wall. He walked towards it, his strides long and graceful, purposeful. He had a mission and he fully intended to carry it out. Upon just barely reaching the instrument, an intruder stepped in front of him. He looked up, curly hair flying free around his face as the man sat at the piano, the notes caressed him and he leaned into the music, the beautiful sound! He felt the waves of pleasure course through him and he sighed. The man stopped, his hands stilled, and he looked to where the sigh had come from. Those eyes met his and for a moment he felt euphoria. The look was so passionate, for he too could feel the piano's power. Getting up, the man gestured to the piano bench and he sat, but when he lifted his hands to play, he could not. For he felt that by even trying, he would make what the man had done look less than what it was. He knew perfection when he heard it, and chose not to interfere with the man's obvious talent. Feeling rejected and worthless, the young man stood and walked away. The other man called after him, but he did not stop. He heard footsteps behind him and began to run. The man behind him shouted for him to stop but still he ran, fleeing what he felt he could not conquer. Out of breath, he leaned against a pillar. The man had either gone back or given up. But alas, the other man had not. For that man watched and waited. And when the other slowly ventured back to the room much later, when all of the people had gone, and it was empty and he could be alone, the other followed, watching and waiting to see what talent would come from those splendid fingers. I could sense his sorrow and wondered at it. Stepping lightly into the room so as not to alarm the other, I quietly watched as the lovely young man began to play. As I watched, I began to cry, and I felt salty tears wander down my face. I knew of the suffering the other had endured and I felt for him. In my heart I began to compose a poem in which I read out loud, keeping my voice barely above a whisper as to not disturb the young man. | ||
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