I was mortal, feeling I was important just because I carried sheets full of music under my cloak. As if it were mine. As if my interpretation would give anything to this world. I played for schillings anywhere I was allowed. I say I know the greats, the Russians specially, like no one. For a moment there, while playing, I felt like Rachmaninoff and those big, heavy chords of his. I felt the world listening to me. I felt the applause was mine and mine only. To then find myself wandering astray.

Then, then I saw those caramel eyes of hers. I saw those eyes and life seemed to have gone beserk, for every time I sit at the piano now I sense how the music pours onto the keys. I won't even say my music. It is hers. It is all hers. It is as my soul chants to the muse I have found. That muse of nighty hair and moony skin. That muse of sweetest tone of eyes. That muse who has decided to own my lips on hers, to be tide of my sea, to paint life in pastels.

I play now and then, here and there, and it won't matter if none would listen as to my notes are of hers. It is her smile of approval the radiant sun which shall bathe me in light.

Lerm du Villiè
June 2015

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