I fake the sounds which should come out of my fingers, stroking people’s faces and it works, as nothing comes out of the keys which I press numbly.
Maybe they insides of the glossy black are broken.
I hear as they clap to my silence, as I close my eyes, my lips in a thin line of concentration, as the hair brushes against my eyelids, blood staining my nails on the dried keys.
I play about the autumn leaves which fall without a sound, taking the remainings of life, the blue crocodiles under my bed which used to sing instead of an alarm, the stars which fell and made holes into the balcony.
They understand it all with their washed faces, as they clap in tune to my silence as they expect either a lady or a man to stand there near the door, the smile colouring the silence with gold and glitter and laughs as the kisses shall be placed upon my neck.
But there’s no one there, as I reach the last keys, there never was.
The desire once was, until I looked into the reflection of the glossy black and I realized for whom I do play, who knows about the eaten under the bed crackers, who gets the nails bitten by the keys as silence strums throughout the air, which has the autumn coloured eyes once reflected in my own.