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Sonnet 13Your fingers deftly dance across the keys like raindrops. I sit, listening, feeling shunned; your face is blank and turned away from me, and I am left to ponder this: Can oneSonnet 13
be jealous of inanimate objects? As much as one may love them, I suppose, and I don’t have to question or suspect your love for these piano keys; I know.
I see the way you stroke them desperately and notice how you breathe while playing notes that please you. I can hear the harmony, and know that no such sound drifts through my throat.
I wish this keyboard were my skin; such
by *Fridgecrisis
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you're faaaantastic!
--
no act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted
--
-I'd rather be happy than right anyday.
-Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.
-And Logic says, "Fuck this, I'm out of here."
and you don't hear a single floor board creak.
I don't think I can stay here.
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