Don’t by Travis Beall

Don’t

ask me to sing
the song I once did
while you nestled
against me
on that black
piano bench, rain
pellets drumming
like a low snare
against the broad window
of the barren rec hall. Don’t
nudge my pilgrim heart
with your copper elbow,
bend that taut twine
beneath the polished surface
of black paint and lacquer–
don’t compose a fiction
that has us once again
melding thighs while
my fingertips press
ivory, my feet work pedals,
my voice strains for melody.
Don’t claim to want any of that,
because now I am only the rain
streaming down the window,
looking in through the waterfall glass.

by Travis Beall

Editor’s Note: The clean, crisp imagery of this poem leads the reader down a smooth narrative towards the sad ending.