Circular piano music ceases
to float up through the cracks between floorboards.
Staring ahead, hands out in front, you pass
my half open door, playing chords
in the air, fingers still sensing the keys.
You return from the bathroom, see me hunched
over the bright bureau in my study,
look bemused as I explain I’m searching
a google screen full of fonts for the name
of a particular one that rings true,
an otherworld shine in my eyes, the same
as the glint in yours now. You continue
to shape a song, spiralling back downstairs
and I, up here, a poem, buoyed by your air.
With thanks to Southword, where this poem was first published.
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