Sitting at the Piano

Sitting at the piano,
a blue note on my fingers,
her hands upon my head.
I struck a chord to mean
we're discordant and disdained,
but it came out right instead.

Sitting in her sleeping car,
riding shotgun like a movie star,
dancing without shoes.
But your fears made you afraid,
and that is why you ran away,
still hoping I would chase you.

Can't you see that I'm an actor?
I told you things I never meant.
Maybe we can't take the stress;
maybe you just cannot bend.
And every note I play is blue,
every chord I strike is you;
and though right now they ring true,
they will fade to nothing if abused.

Sitting at the piano,
a soft touch in my fingers,
caresses all for you.
You're beautiful and much much more,
but if you choose to kill the chord,
I'll trash the whole damn tune.

~07/2006