fleeting love for a grand piano and poetry

I was interrupted from a conversation with a six-foot lover because she makes too much noise when people are trying to sleep. Her sound floods the entire house whenever we speak. She bears her soul and lays naked before me, awaiting only my hands to remind her of long-forgotten memories. Yet she only sings true when I wash away my inhibitions and give myself completely to her. Like all lovers, sometimes we quarrel or treat each other cruelly, but our love is true and we constantly strive at strengthening our relationship. I take a breath to sigh in longing for a return to my lover and my muse.

Moving on, I try to fill the void in my soul from being torn apart from my lover. Suddenly something catches my eye. I see her from across the room and advance towards her. I caress her body hoping to feel her warmth and melt to her pulse, but she remains cold and unresponsive, her flesh almost synthetic.  She is different from my past lovers. This shallow temptress has no soul, nothing inside her shell of a body other than programmed responses. Should I choose to explore her I will find nothing inside but myself. And since I do not wish to experience the ultimate loneliness that is solitude in the company of another, I leave her as silently as I approached and come to you, the person dwelling in my head, a close friend of whom I see far too little. But perhaps it’s for the best; otherwise, we might grow wary of each other. That said, I must bid you farewell, dear old friend, and speak of lovers some other time.