The Piano Man

It's the feel of lightning in my blood.

I stare across the street at the man in the grey cloak, his nose sharp and strong under the dark sweep of hair. He sits alone at a cafe, a teacup lonely on the tabletop.

He rises and my heart pumps harder.

I sense sudden sweat drip along my spine as I see him take a step toward me. Then another. I can hear a drumbeat inside of my ears.

His graceful hands are alight with the joy of liberty as he walks into the street.

It's the piano that pulls him forward. Not me. A piano set upon the cobblestones as if the world had made this street her living room.

In the rawness of this tiny moment, I feel the draw of his form. I ache to be closer to him.

I am invisible with craving, hidden by this veil I wear. This false veil of modesty that deems me responsible for the carnal reactions of others.

The animal body inside my chaste gown quivers, and my eyes make love to his skin without his consent.

The liquid notes of music float from the keyboard thru the air, making their way into my bones.

They vibrate across the plaza and land deep inside my soul, making my heart sing a song I did not know I knew til now.

The melody is like crushed velvet in the sun, warm and begging to be touched.

The world tells me that I am a prize to be won.

I've seen what a mess a man can make when he takes a woman to use as his own. When he smashes her will underneath his own, without knowledge of this intimate violence.

This man is probably not who I think he is. He could never be that, for who could?

But still, this lightning floods my veins as if this terror had never existed.

And I simply long to touch his hand.