pianos of the past {poem}

it is in these moments with myself
i fall in love with my skin and all it's touched.

the fire from every vanilla candle,
the power within.
the chords from the pianos of the past.
the night.
the darkness of each fallen night -
the vulnerability within me -
drunk on just being alive.

willing to spill my colors onto yours,
making a beautiful mess,
making a color with no name -
a color undiscovered.

it is within these moments,
all cynicism melts.
and i exist as a poetic soul,
a moving woman,
drinking the world in a porcelain mug of green.

the jazz music was playing and i couldn't believe my eyes.
the magic of the city lights from the 30th floor,
projecting itself onto my freckles.

the stolen telephone lines of each and every ghost town
from fancy basements,
filled with sleeping bags and flashing lights -
reflecting our adolescent hearts.

the independence,
not red or blue,
but blue and green.
reflecting its beauty onto my sandy dark hair,
hoping the moonlight will never get a chance,
because she will consume me,
naive and wide-eyed.

the fleece below me could never comfort me like the images behind me.
i hope every night is stunning where ever you are.
in my words, you are a legend.

this suitcase heart may visit very dimension and realm,
but will always carry you,
as cummings said.

that town never could break me,
and i hope you find your vocal range.