Pianos Were His Love

Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or a Fazioli Pianoforti long had he craved to play them. He was in love with grand pianos, their shape and sheen, their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies. His hands, so unmusical, his heart a natural composer of words but not more than two or three notes together. He admires from afar the ornate candelabra set upon polished wood, a wood so dark it shines and reflects. He imagines the discrete intricacies of maple and spruce within its handcrafted mahogany torso. The sprung brass of muted pedals, A frame of tensile Swedish steel; its resounding skeleton, all built to create both delicate nocturns or the most vigorous of Hungarian rhapsodies. Ribs, strings, hornbeam hammers, Lindenwood keys all strung, spun, or carved all brought together to construct one perfect medley. These grand instruments even when silent enchanted him. He would run his fingers over their curvaceous ebony forms allow fingertips to caress the un-played keys, white on black almost erotic when a chaste lid is lifted. He dreams of playing for a lady in crinoline a music lover, and he the intense composer of unspoken love and desire. He dreams knowing that this cannot be not then nor ever as his workman's hands crash down once more upon his hard-worked and clattering laptop keys.