I touch the ivory keys
that are not ivory,
as I if I am touching her,
feeling through them
her fingers
that have touched there before,
the tips of mine
touching her lips
from which her songs emerge,
though I know it is not the place
she created most of those
I listen to over and over,
all but one she says
she sang for me
and sent to me to
listen to
before she shared it
with the wider, mad world.
i touch the keys and feel her touch,
as if through them she is touching me,
striking chords
within me
I did not know existed
and did not know anyone cared to touch,
one soft note after the other,
building into a melody inside of me
that I know is mine
alone,
aching for her to
touch these keys now
as I stand in her
abode,
having climbed up to
her ivory tower,
like a wise man bring gifts to her manger,
she is wiser than i
am wise,
one of those angels
hovering over me and this place,
singing songs that if not holy,
then sacred just the
same,
potent and powerful.
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