Meathead Monologue

the pianist looks at me

the shoes on my feet are not shoes
at all, but cinderblocks i have tied
to myself, in subtle hopes that i can stay
grounded around you.
i always seem to float away at the sight
of your feathery eyes and coy smile,
the cinderblocks now on my shoulders
tell me to keep going forwards.
don't look at him.
don't look at him.
but my eyes don't know where else to look and i
am swimming in a beautiful sea of daises.
daises flood my senses
and i am sure that is
what you would smell like
if i were to hug you.
i see you tap your fingers like you're
playing the piano, and i can only
ponder if those fingers will
ever
play me,
touch me, the same way they
may touch ivory.
you have a biblical name and i know for a fact
that when i die
there you will be, asking to see my hands
at his gates.
and i will show you my hands.
i will show my blistered hands i have
used to try and learn how to handle a bleeding heart. but your hands know
everything.
so for now, i have cinderblocks
and i can not play the piano.
and we make small eye contact here and there,
exchanged a smile or two.
i am not ready to fall,
but god knows if you played me
as if i were your piano,
i would if you asked me to.

r.k.