F#

You’ve rustled through the long-forgotten score,

fingertips brushing over the ink,

reminiscing that sweet melody.

/

You set it down on the stand,

fingers gliding over the ivory keys

for the first time in three years.

/

It’s been so long;

you just want to play.

To feel, the rush, of performing.

/

You sight-read the piece,

and as the notes rise from your fingers,

the memories start falling like rain when they meet.

/

But something is wrong.

You know the piece will end,

but it’s not that.

/

You’ve played this piece many times before,

but there’s one thing that you almost faintly remember —

but don’t.

/

You go about this haze,

as emotions pour out of you;

like a performer, like an actor.

/

The melody progresses,

as you bask in the notes

until it solidly hits you —

/

F#.

/

You’ve missed all of the F#s in the entire piece,

and that’s how you’ve always played it.

/

Missing a crucial note.

You never knew the piece.

/

You never knew the ending.

/

And that’s how you’ve always stopped.

Mid-piece.

/

Your hands glide of the keyboard abruptly.

The last page falls off.

/

You pick it up, uniting it with the other pages,

in that familiar rustle as you file it back into its hiding place.

/

Some other time, some other day.

/

Some other person.