“I bought a ticket to the world,
But now I’ve come back again.
Why do I find it hard to write the next line?”
Her slender fingers race furiously over the ivory of the piano, coaxing, soothing, as I close my eyes to Pachelbel’s Canon in D warming up the little living room. I pull on my jeans awkwardly, and tap my toes against the oak leg of the coffee table. The energy emanating from the old piano quickly overcomes me, pushing me back to gentler times.
I can see her eyes closed, so relaxed, as she becomes one with her instrument. All I could do, is open my lips slightly in a weak smile. And my mind wondered.
***
Her wild jet hair surrounded me like a curtain, and in the air I could smell the slight scent of Ralph Lauren Blue. I’d wrap my arm around the small of her back, and pull her closer until our lips touched slightly. Even with our eyes closed, I could feel the warmth of her smile against my face.
As I trace the line along her backbone, she body shivers and she presses herself against me once again. We kiss raviously like two people that had been starved, enjoying something that could not possibly last. And again, we’d sink deep into her bed, with her sighs laced like her fingers behind my neck.
***
It’s funny. This small memories.
The small memories are always the ones we remember most well. Buried deep within the harshness, a sliver of gold, waiting to be found and polished.
Perhaps I’m trying to find a part of me that’s missing. This muse. Someone to tame my wild ways. But I’ve been around the world, and I know there’s nothing left to see.
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