Grip.



I’m writing out of the sheer need to write,
to hear the click of my nails on the keys.
When I was younger, when I didn’t own a computer,
my fingers would pound different keys.
At 18 I’d lock myself in the small conservatory room at my first college
and feel the pressure of my fingers on the black and white piano keys.
Then I moved to a different kind of instrument and a different mode of voice expression,
different instrument, same rhythm.
I’ve had a difficult time keeping that rhythm for quite a while now.
It is all at once familiar and strange,
we are two old friends who have forgotten how to speak our native tongue.
I thought I’d write this entry as if it were a whisper to my rhythm,
a whisper to the muse.
Just to let the cord know that I’m still hanging on,
even if only by the tiniest red thread,
this woman still has her grip.



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