Sometimes I like to pretend my keyboard is a piano. Each letter I type is a note of a song I haven’t quite finished. I don’t know how to play the piano, but if I did, I would write a song about wet shoes and sunrises looking better when you haven’t slept. The melody would fit my ideas perfectly, as if I wasn’t trying at all, like the 88 keys were neural extensions. I don’t know if I envy musicians, but I certainly aspire to be one. Of course, my voice cracks and my dexterity isn’t exactly promising.
Instead, I use a keyboard on a Sony Vaio and write what comes to mind, and those thoughts are often laughable or ludicrous, but at least I try. And that’s something I can say with pride.
You leak ichor, a deep crimson
that tastes like pennies.
My bruises are the color of clouds
at five AM and we walk
to the beach, water in our shoes
making the sound of children.
Each time the trees move,