The faint hum of a stranger playing piano against my apartment walls
is like the ocean, a bowing point for the sparkly pop and blinding dash of light to reflect against my visage. The wavering unsteady blue face of solitude and exuberance as the bubble moves water to cleanse social inebriation
washing over my face
In tides, the clouds roll to meet me as I float here in silence
ready to embrace the gray that flaws and flails above me. I’m not scared of you, rain is nothing more but water, this ocean will absorb you with brave arms - I welcome agitation
waiting for the invisible figure to play one more single note at a time. Again. I wait.
But who is the performer? When did stranger become synonymous to neighbor? And is he aware that I exist at this point as audience? How does he/she/it know how to relax and massage my conscious speak more than my seeing eye can? Or how does the world know that my pain would be conjugately coaxed at these very bobbing seams with strings that blush and fade through the sounds like I did when hearing first noise. Or triggered unsaid remembrance of first love/pain to remind me how it felt to be simply at ease without knowing. With just listening. And wondering. And asking questions of this mystery. And creating truths to own for myself, alone.
With a murmur, I was fixed.
