She plays to an audience of one,
battered fingers repeating notes
that remind her of the summer rain
(la lluvia de verano),
that fell in arpeggios on the courtyard
where the jasmin bloomed.
Gone are the flowers
(all the colour),
yet their perfume lingers
in the bedsheets
where she surrendered to his overtures,
the percussive beats of the bed against the wall.
In this departure she is locked,
craving forgotten melodies
to satisfy the orchestra in her heart,
the piano her soul companion
to the symphonies of the past.
Her soul bleeds onto ivory
and storm clouds swell on the savannah
(the wastelands of her mind),
she rides the thunder in her left hand,
a rain of tears upon the keys,
she plays to an audience of one.
(c) Darren Hawbrook
p.s. to the owner of the image: I found this photo in several places on tumblr but couldn’t find the source. If you happen on my blog let me know and I will credit or remove.