We can scratch and chew and stroke ourselves as we see fit;
we know our mind, every last shadow; we don’t know another’s.
The things people say about love isn’t the same as it.
There is a brawling camaraderie of furious sisters and brothers
but that’s family—the perfect love is someone you don’t fear
because deep inside you don’t really love them.
When you sit at the piano by chance
and try this, then that, quiet combination of tone,
you begin to feel you are pianist and composer
even as a simple, sad amateur.
We would rather be alone.
