I’ll ask a question.

And say something afterword. Something precise.

Something sweet.

Just like the northern hot chocolate.

Just like the sticky floor, after a night. Just like the clothes strewn around our rented bed.

Like Chopin, B flat minor.

Rubato.

And the smokey room is colorful,

but those notes are not sweet.

They pretend to be bland tasting,

cheap lettuce like nothing but water, and green dye.

Water carrying the feeling of frost.

And it’s in your pockets, my pockets,

and it’s icy, cracking like wet hair in the winter.

Icy until the notes fall from high to low, and trill in the meanwhile. Now frozen rain.

Now a timbre so sweet, I’m reminded of those clothes, and my foot sticking to the ground.

The keys dance under my fingers that are painted as if in motion, but only the keys are graceful.

I dance with them and my painted hands. A marionette.

I look for the architect of those hands. Follow the crevices as they contort.

I watch the keys.

They dance and I feel nothing because I have a forever to watch them, they will always dance.

Puppets pulled.

And I can cry later, although I already did. This past time,

I smiled, now

I don’t. The floor is clean. The bed is ordered. And I cannot find the sweetness.

My foot digs into the floor, hoping to be stuck, but as I lift the veiny shaking foot

it jumps up nimbly.

I cannot find anything to stick to. Just my painted hands, working

like ants, but without the beauty of ignorant diligence.

Just clockwork, churning. Simple machine.

Now simple.