Not a Pianist

This is one of those days; If I could go to the front of the classroom and sit down at the piano, my fingers tensed, I would. I am anxious, my chest feels hollow and after a weekend of assessing where I stood, I miss you right now. This is Lowell, and its sunny and beautiful in October.

Kelsey left her desk light on this morning. I woke up earlier than my alarm because I thought I could see the sun pouring in. It was superficial. I looked to her empty bed, her sheets thrown about, and my mind quickly traveled to the corner of Pawtucket and School where there is a mattress on the third floor with crimson sheets that looks just the same.

The two tea-cups on my desk were empty. Two, not one, where two, not one, had sipped tea just the night before. But things change so quickly and now there is one, under the covers, staring at the ceiling, imagining her friends asleep next to each other on a southbound bus.

Even if I could stare the Merrimack right in the eyes, it would never take me west. My hair still hangs in my face and I feel guilt when I stand by as someone get hurts. I've never longed for the midwest more.

You've caught me out of sync in a silent classroom where the light pours in to the point where, even if I tried to make out the second bridge down the river, I would not be able to.

This is Manhattan, This is 2 miles south of Michigan, This is Atlanta, asleep in the passenger seat. If you loose your hat on the EL somewhere, just breath through the winter.