readtowrite:

I married the piano player because I deserved to. I deserved his music more than I deserved anything in my life. I fell in love with the piano player because he didn’t know words and I couldn’t make music. I moved in with the piano player because there was nothing better than Tchaikovsky at two in the morning or Rachmaninoff at the height of the afternoon. I dated the piano player because of the fantastical visions I had of myself reading atop his piano as he played the keys. He would strike the keys and then use those fingers to write songs along my skin, the notes he conducted drifting off my back or calf and playing in the air. I kissed the piano player so that I could communicate with him without words and he could communicate with me without music. I wanted the piano player because he was a quiet boy with a drum in his heart and an orchestra for a soul. I saw the piano player and knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

(Source: persephine)