Piano Man

Ivory on ivory, her slender fingers moved smoothly across the glistening keys of the piano. The composition was that of her own and it was for me, I knew that from the passion that she was playing with, but it was…well, it was sad, to say the least. Deep, depressing, hitting my soul like it were a bass drum and the music the padded mallet (though I still wonder how padded that mallet was this particular instance). I could not deny the beauty of it, for it was just that, but I could also not deny the emotion that it awakened in me like nothing else I had ever experienced. It may have been for me but it was by no means about me or our relationship in any way what so ever. Be that as it may, she kept playing as if it was, as if the piece that she had written was in fact a narrative of us, for nothing other the topic of our relationship had ever ignited a passion such as what I witnessed that day.
She ended it with a rather dramatic low key that hung in the air for several long moments while she sat, eyes closed and fingers poised as if she was not done. But then she set those delicate hands on her knees and hung her head, the effort it took to play like what she had just done too much for her already weakened soul. I went to her then, as quickly as I could I went to her side and lent her my shoulder to weep on, for I could do naught else to comfort the only being that has ever touched my heart the way that the late Christian had touched hers. Maybe I was wrong, maybe the piece was written for me after all but about him. Yes, that makes much more sense. How silly of me to think that she actually cared about me the way that she had done so towards him. He was, after all, her first true love, and I know as well as the next man that those are the hardest to forget, if indeed you ever do. I could never forget her the way that I am asking her to forget him. How damned selfish of me to think in such a way.