I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.

nothing is real

until the first drop of your 

sun speckles it, nothing’s


true until your breath

infuses words into stones

or shorelines, and nothing’s 


mine anymore. I’ve 

held my forevers in the clasp 

of your hand, I’ve seen


anthems rise in tendrils 

of gold from your eyes holding 

mine; and yes, I couldn’t 


tell those racing streets 

from heartbeats back there or would 

ever know if what was,


was love or an inkling I’d

snuffed out even before it sparked