Play me something new and sweet.
I need a bit more than deep, blue nothing.
Play me a cleansing, colorful melody
that smells and tastes of cherry wine,
to ease the pain in my dancing feet
and buy me a bit more time.
Play me something more than a memory;
I am tired of the sounds of black and white.
My mind does not work the way it is supposed to.
You tell me, “That’s okay. Artists’ minds never do.”
So why is it that when you play, all I see is blue?
Why is it that all I feel is pain, and all I smell is vermouth?
Synesthesia, so they say, because I could not tell you
the difference between a harmony and hue,
nor the taste of wine and feel of a corkscrew,
nor why, when you're away, I so miss you.
So let me take you where no one will hear us
as I tell you everything with my eyes.
I am no musician, so I will just have to show
what exactly is on my mind.
How strange is the courage to speak the truth –
to play it, to write it, to sketch it, or try.
My senses are so full, frightened, and confused
by the feel of your magic hands in mine.
Worlds lie beyond piano keys:
city sounds, cigarette smoke, skylines,
and romance expressed between the downbeats
in a cadenza the color of your eyes.
Sempre più, too great for a masterpiece –
always more than music, just in disguise.
From larghetto to molto vivace,
you bring every color and shape to life.
You descended directly from the stars
as deconstructed calcium, carbon, nitrogen.
The sounds and smells of irreplaceable art
came to life in a miracle of science.
So please play me a bar or two for good measure.
Let me see, smell, and taste this moment.
I think I sense the person you are:
a composer, not just a pianist.
