I woke up at a beautiful piano note, undoubtedly played by a woman. The notes were gentle, and carried a semblance that only women could possibly possess. The sun had already been hung in the cloudless skies, but other than the piano notes, there were no signs of life. Even the air did not seem to breathe.
There was no one in the room; the door remained ajar as it were the night before. Whoever accompanied me had fled into the previous night. My mind was focused on the notes; little did I know that the notes would be played upon the ashes of my youth.
I sat on the unmoved chair at the balcony, and looked across towards the opposite building in search for the source of my wake up call. There was a large balcony on the second floor, and a woman, whose back faced me, played the piano. There was nothing enchanting about her, but her hair flamed at the tips with crimson red. I was mesmerized by her music; it held me captive to its magic. The sad tone brought back memories of past, of a lost love I had, someone whom I perceived to be the princess swan, someone whose prince was not I. I closed my eyes in remembrance of every moment I had with her. My heart had been an open book to her, but she had failed to write in it, except daunting, false promises and an anguishing friendship that I had to forever bear. She had been my Northern Star, my only light through the darkest seas.
The lady by the piano had stopped playing, relieving me from my memories. She stood up and went inside her abode. I remained motionless, cold to the sun and deaf to the street. I had an impulsive thought; I wanted to write her. I wanted to express to her how I felt to her music, how it made me remember and relive all my fears and my memories. I had not talked to the woman yet, nor was I able to judge or compare her beauty, but the notes she played were more than enough for me to capture the essence of her character. Thus, I wrote:
I write to you today even though my mind forbids me to. But my ashen heart has been rekindled by the warmth of your notes. I write to you with fear that I will, at one point, hate you for loving your notes. I do not wish to be in love with you, nor do I ever wish to even see your face. All I desire is for you to wake me from my reality, to be in dreams for as long as life flows through your fingers. I plead to you: Do not deprive me of your melody.