Still

The charred pieces lay amidst the grey-black ash,
As the darkness engulfs even the smallest of embers
And as I dust my piano, closed for a year,
The yellowed ivory feels foreign to my skin.

Foreign, as your touch on the small of my back
When we made frigid love in cold environs
And I sit in front of my piano, telling myself
That I can play, as the music escapes me.

Little by little, I feel the warm embalming of tears
Leave my eyes, and heal the diseased keys.
I close my piano then, only for the vision of a new sun
That'll leave, as the day is gone, and I'll set another
Page of my written symphonies to fire.

Night after night.
I'll remember you, still.