Unplayed Piano

I am an unplayed piano. Unplayed by you. My keys, all smooth and ivory, are gathering dust while they wait, dying to be touched. By you, mostly, but there are some days where I just want someone, anyone (almost) to play me, apply slight pressure here and there to make rich, fine chords come out, burst out from inside of me, clearing dust and age and sadness from my depths.

Make me sing, music boy. Write your songs on my spine and behind my knees and along my fingers. Kiss your lyrics into my neck and collar bone and hips. Fuck your beats into me, make me feel what you feel. Pound the keys, tickle the ivories, tell me a story with notes, chords, words, in a song.

I feel something inside of you when you rest your fingertips lightly on my black and white keys, barely making contact. Something that is almost ready to come out, burst out, sing out. It's moving inside of you and I feel the vibrations like bass lines under your skin. But then you take your hand away, the dust collected on my keys still embedded in your fingerprints, and let your arm hang loose and limp at your side. But your fingers are still buzzing, electric with the song we could have made, if only you'd played me.