joannebest











{May 10, 2013}   Killing Me Softly

intomyarmskilling me softlyeyemusicnickcaveart
He sits alone onstage, his fingers urging notes and chords out of his piano, his voice husky, growling all my secrets for anyone to hear.
I slam down a shot of liquid courage and leave the safety of my usual hiding place in the back corner of the bar, closer to the stage.
Right there, in front of God and anyone bothering to pay attention, I walk onstage, slide his piano just a little bit to the side as his hands continue to make magic, deep low notes humming through my core, and straddle his lap, face-to-face as I press my mouth to his.
He doesn’t miss a note.
Of course this is all in my mind as I watch him play.
In reality, I just sit, watch, and listen.
I do leave the safety of my hiding spot though, that much is true.
There’s an empty table right up front. I notice that people don’t always like to sit at the table closest to the stage although I don’t know why.
I’m not one of them. The closer the better as far as I’m concerned. Especially when he’s onstage, exposed and brutally honest.
The people watch but they don’t see.
They listen but they don’t hear.
I immerse myself in everything he is, everything surrounding him is light and dark fighting for dominance and I can’t tear my eyes away hard as I try.
Every word he sings is an arrow piercing my soul.
Every key his fingers touch is my flesh and I shiver as he plays me.
He sings my pain and it mingles with his.
He plays my torment and it blends together with his own, a beautifully torturous melody so blatant it astounds me that nobody hears what I hear.
He plays just for me.

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