I imagine she loves to play her piano.
She's gentle, and so positively brittle,
seems like a thing she has to do,
filling solitude with an act as fragile.
Her notes must tingle, then break
like delicate glass on tiled floor,
crystal chimes in a wind of winter,
or ice crackling on a distant lake.
No it's not that she is out of place,
just out of touch, or no better yet,
out of the energy required to face
the discomfort of intimacy, I bet.
Her melody's always unending
with eyes closed in soft silence.
Her smile's in need of mending
as she plays in want and patience
and waits, uncertain, pretending.
Her life has become a penance.
I imagine she loves to read my poems,
She's empty, needing passion in words.
So I write of those remembered times
to share the anguish she always finds
in a world which must seem so frightful,
with the echoes of failures at passion, 
and triumphs of those with lives full,
not just waiting, hiding, in seclusion
in a world of black and white mystery
sharing soul with just keys of ivory 
on a bench in the middle of lonely,
in the turmoil of her unspoken pleas,
where everything has to be broken
because her world is never at ease.