Everyday wears me down

A year ago today I left you sitting on the street looking up at the sky with your black eyes, hands pooled in your lap. Your pianist's fingers still for once. I had small hands and I used to envy how your fingers bridged octaves so damn easily.

You said, 'It's going to rain.'

And I walked away.

.

The day before I left, I wrote you a song.

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I don't think you understand. Jason. David. Whoever you want to be today.
How your hands snag on my hair and the way
you make me smile even when I'm about to fall apart…
Last winter I cradled my heart ─

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I never finished. It was cold and quiet in my room. Outside the sun blazed down. The air conditioner buzzed. I drank the last of my Coke and dripped splotchy tears all over the sheets. I heard you were a player from a friend of a friend. She told me I'd better watch out.

A player. Yeah, I could believe that. You were always the best at whatever you did. Playing Mozart. Playing your audience to oblivion. Playing girl's hearts. I should have known you from the start.

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I found the sheet music for the song you wrote me. Went downstairs and sat at the piano. Tapped out the notes tentatively, let them hang wavering in the air. Left your words unsung. But I read them all.

Every morning
I miss the sound of your breath…

I had no feel for the music. After two pages I couldn't do it anymore. My fingers were not yours; they couldn't stretch and dance over the keys like poetry in motion. The words were not mine – you had given them to me but the lies were always yours. You owned everything I ever wanted.

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When I was young I dreamt about being a pianist. Not world class, just good enough for myself. So I could re-create Mozart's masterpieces in my own living room, submerged in reverberating cadences, breathing music like air.

I could say you knocked it all out of me, but it wouldn't be honest. I left it all for you. Music school, my scolding teacher, my scholarship. You had perfect hands and they cradled my face. Your breath on my chin. You are. Beautiful. I could get used to this, I told myself. Waited nervously for the catch.

I had a list: Leukaemia. A family tragedy. Losing you to your music. I had planned all these different ways for you to be dragged away by fate. I imagined us twenty years down the track, lovers parted by the ocean, dreaming of a return that never came. Stupid and sentimental. I know.

I know, but some things aren't in black and white. Hearts aren't like pianos. When you stop playing they still dance to your tune.

And I still dream of you.

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What you didn't know was my history.

What you didn't know is that I had my heart broken twice by liars and I wasn't ready to go there again. I swore to myself you were different. I justified everything you did, every distracted smile, every time you told me you were busy.

And then I found the songs.

I popped by your place and you kissed me hello, then went outside to take a call. My piano teacher you mouthed. I sat down and looked glanced at the songs piled on your bed. For Hannah. My heart stopped. The one underneath read for Lucy.

There were five. One for every girl in your life. And a neat date at the top left hand corner. They were all within days of one another.

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I tried to write you a song but I couldn't.

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'I think it's going to rain,' you said.

'I used to love you.'

Your song wove itself around my brain and into the crevices of my collarbones. I'm probably saying this all wrong. But you said it five different times, five different ways. I guess we were all testing ground for your songs. Oh, girl. You're my heart.

'The air is damp like it always is.'

And I said, 'Goodbye.'