I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.
nothing is real
until the first drop of your
sun speckles it, nothing’s
true until your breath
infuses words into stones
or shorelines, and nothing’s
mine anymore. I’ve
held my forevers in the clasp
of your hand, I’ve seen
anthems rise in tendrils
of gold from your eyes holding
mine; and yes, I couldn’t
tell those racing streets
from heartbeats back there or would
ever know if what was,
was love or an inkling I’d
snuffed out even before it sparked