Fingers press ivory, soft at first,
whispers of something too big for words.
The melody sways between sorrow and longing,
between joy and the things I can’t explain—
but no one ever asks—
it’s just a song, just the keys, just a hobby.
The low notes ground me, steady and sure,
a place to rest when the world is too loud.
The high notes lift me, weightless and free,
each chord a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
They hear music, not meaning.
They hum along, never knowing
that every note is a reason, a refuge,
that the crescendo is my pulse, my purpose,
rising and falling like a heartbeat.
And when the last note lingers,
hanging in the quiet like a final exhale,
I close the lid,
not because I am finished,
but because I know—
the music will always be waiting.
