C Minor Scale

We got a tangled history, the two of us. Intertwined by chords of joy, of mourning, of vitality, The vibration of my black and white tiles match the vibration of your black and white memories

My mellifluous notes become so quickly discordant when touched by the wrong hands, much like your life.

A melody to be sung from the hilltops of youth, turned to a cacophony that repels open ears.

Do you know how it feels to be so secretly beautiful while everyone hits the notes that turn you hideous?

Of course you know

Arguments that make you say things you don’t mean. The parts of life that make you ugly-cry. Desires to show the world the person you keep locked in out of fear of being seen but misunderstood.

But when they really feel us, out comes a beautiful harmony, Unexpected as it may be Until there’s no song left to sing, No story left to tell.

When the sun sets at half-past five, the distance obscures my view, but I sense tension turning from azure to ashen and vermillion. Cardamom and coriander aromas buzz through the air, and warmth radiates from the stove, though even this cannot pierce the chilled air that swamps them

There’s no one reason why they’ve become this way, distraught 9 to 5 workers radioactively combusting once the windows turn jet-black and the leaves go yonder. But, I’ve come to anticipate the affair –it’s the crux of each night

When the sun sets at half-past five, I ease into the downy leather seats in our fluorescent kitchen and stare at her and him, realizing that if a person gives in, stress can override their existence Down the depths of their bare skin, are dark gnarly taints adorning their silhouettes. It is as if one plunged their knife in deep mahogany and carved it into the caverns along their cheeks, the bodacious coils below their eyes, the pulpous trenches across their thighs, and the mended ridges that embellish the widths of their collarbones. Stress is a solicitor knocking at your door, treading through wind and snow to reach your haven. It knows its presence irks you, yet its yearn to convert you never unravels

When the sun begins to set at half-past five, his verdant herb garden evanesces, and her fiery ardor for cooking dissipates Exhilaration flows out of our spruce home, and back into dismal labor buildings. While the berries and vegetables they nurtured over the summer still find their way onto the dinner table Sometimes, I can’t help but mourn for them, for they are obligated to reside in such dissonance. Winter, why must you have such a frosty aura about you? You bring back my memories in and out of fumigated hospitals,

Of whetted, angled, sterile metallic tools, And that pungent inescapable smell -a mix of astringent Clorox bleach with a hint of coppery silver gore. Your rendezvous brings us misery, while our misery imprisons me in desolation

A faded meander lies on the basal of my pulpous hand, traversing from shades of carmines to rust. The miniscule maim gives way to an indelible blunder of your doing, a serrated shard of glass that flew from an icy wine bottle fractured from frigid weather, and stabbed me right in the palm.

Why don’t you notice us clamoring our dishes, contorting our legs, and ramming our heads?

You must be so selfish, causing all that you encompass to descend into depression. Funny thing though, Soon the sun will set half-past seven, and time will no longer be in your favor. What will you do then?

You poor thing will be overtaken by summer!