we have pianos in our hearts. they used to be phantom childhood lullabies that pretended they still existed and listened to nostalgic music until they realised it was time to write their own songs. so crotchets and minims tumbled from their honeyed lips as they danced, melodies being woven into existence like a tapestry adorned with rhythmic memories.

his piano is a marbled dove grey and amethyst, like a fallen angel that fell in love with a cloud nymph until their blood ran together in a fatal dance. your piano is cerulean (like my eyes when watered with tear-lit hope), and adorned with the songs of star-flung pastel galaxies. their melodies were colourless canvases but they danced until rainbows infected their fabricated souls like watercolour running through blank parchment.

but my piano could never dance joyously enough. it is still the white of a lucid bloom, clinging to my soul like a wet dress clinging to my body as it exposes my nothingness. it sings pitiful warbles of regret, a tornado of colourless melodies that still cannot overwhelm my eyes with art like your piano does.

and even when i listen to storms of colour, my song is still colourless.