The Rhetoric Of A Silent Piano
I sold your apartment and bought a silent piano.
No one understood why.
It seemed like an oxymoron,
but I thought of it more
as a metaphor.
Standing in the living room,
shiny and black.
An impressive pedigree,
with a price tag to match.
Eighty-eight keys play to my fantasies,
indulge my fears, unlock my needs.
The need to be heard
while not making a sound.
The need to say what I mean
and not have it pass my lips.
The need for someone to understand
as if peeking through my heart’s keyhole.
The need to be loved
without screaming it.
Perhaps it is an oxymoron, after all.