I would lay down to sleep at night; I would close my eyes and dream. It is the same dream every night; a beautiful but sad dream. I would be sitting at piano, a white piano, fingering the keys, playing forgotten notes; I would be daydreaming hitting keys making no real sound. But it feels to me like I used to play, play beautiful songs that I now have forgotten. I can feel hands on mine but they are not real they are ghost hands, a fleeting memory, guiding me to the notes I once knew. My face is full of wonder as the keys began to make a song; a song that I can't quite remember. Was it my song? The notes that I play are like a haunting memory; I can't stop because these gentle hands guide me. I can almost feel the warmth of someone behind me but I know no one is there.
On one key I pull back, the broken note reverberates through the quite room. On that strained note, in which continues to play in my ear, I pull my hands to my face. Tears began to fall on the silent keys, the warmth has