He Loved Pianios

Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or Fazioli, even an archaic Pianoforti, long had he craved to play them all. He was in love with their shape and sheen, their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies. He loves the sensuality of maple and spruce, those handcrafted mahogany torsos, the sprung brass of muted pedals, deep resonations within a grand iron skeleton a tri-legged, beast of beauty, built to create the most delicate of nocturns, or a thumping Hungarian Rhapsody. He would run his fingers, over their curvaceous sable forms allow fingertips to caress un-played keys, the almost erotic white and black harmony beneath a chaste lid. He imagines playing for a lady in crinoline perhaps, and he the intense composer of unspoken desires. Sad to say, his clumsy laptop fingers, clattered upon that keyboard, his coda forever silent.