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I’m from our piano
Scraps of tape stuck to the keys
Where you wrote their names
So you could teach me my first song
I’m from the sheet music in the bench
Which neither of us could read
And your sketched scattered with them
Like it’s your art’s hiding place
I’m from the old, worn string
Out of tune from the years of our playing
And our parents wouldn’t pay
To get them fixed
But most of all
I’m from you
And my memories
Of our piano.
©2008-2009 ~Thisisawil
:iconthisisawil:

Author's Comments

Off a prompt in my Creative Writing class, where we had to write a piece about where we were (figuratively) "from".

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:iconalyson-rene:
Oooh, haven't read this one yet.

--
The world is everything that is the case.

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February 15, 2008
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