October rains inside
your thick walls,
still moldy from
thirty-five years
of trumpet sonatas,
piano fugues leaking
into grey carpet.

 
I bury notes deep
into soundproof
crevices that lean
against cracking
paint while smooth
keys eat  my skin,
leaving crumbs
between middle C
and the stamped gold
e of Steinway.

 
You slide down beside
me on the bench,
grasp my wrists.
I starve, bruise easily
while you smash
my hands against
white knife-edged keys.