My hands touch the keys as if I’m to play a masterpiece.
And I am.
Just not one you’re used to.
There is no music,
no beautiful harmony,
no flowy concert dresses,
or sheet music on the stand.
There are only words.
Only letters.
My fingers type the things unspoken,
unforgotten,
and untold.
My hands write music sweet to the eyes and hard to hear.
A masterpiece indeed,
these words truly are.
They are every broken soul,
every broken heart.