Image by Pexels from Pixabay

I watch the raindrops as they slide down my window. Shiny, little droplets racing, parting, reuniting at the edges of the black frame. They remind me of us and the way we ran free that Spring. I remember the way the most independent, solitary people that set foot on Earth found each other and filled the air with magic.

I still feel this way, you know?

I have placed my piano keyboard in front of the window. It has a wooden base, like a miniature grand piano, only thinner and square. It has a protective wooden lid over the keys which slides up and back when you open it. Often, like today, I lean over as I sit in front of the piano, I lay my head on that lid and watch the city moving silently behind the glass.

People often find it odd that I have it there and maybe they find it even odder when I tell them that I make the most out of my window when it’s closed.

“It’s the sounds,” I say. “I don’t want to hear the sounds of the city.”

I remember the first time you came to my apartment. You glanced at the piano for a few seconds, smiled, and looked at me. You said, “you play?” and I nodded, struck by the simple fact you didn’t ask further questions.

“Won’t you ask me why I have the piano in front of the window?”

“Should I?”

“I don’t know, people do.”

“Well, then people don’t really know what windows are for,” you said, grinning, and, my God, I wanted to capture that expression on your face, and show it to the entire universe.

I realised then, you knew. You valued silence as much as I did, and you appreciated watching the city more than hearing its noise. And you were the same with people, with me. The years we’d spent together you saw in me what my lips would never reveal, you watched me usually feeling the opposite of what I said.

And then there were those days, you know, when it would rain a little too hard, and people would desert the city. When everyone searched for shelter, and the silence, still and peaceful, covered the noises gracefully, like a white lace veil. Only then we cherished the sounds.

We waited for the bolts of lightning to begin and we turned off the lights and all the electronic devices you hate so much, we pulled the piano away from the window which only then we allowed it to be open. You would put your book down carefully and join me by the window, and we would hear the rain and the thunder take over the earth. The scent of the moist ground would fill our room, and you’d hold me tight as we’d watch the lightning change shape in the sky. How I cherished those moments.

But right now, as I’m laying my head on the piano’s open lid, I watch the city suffering the merciless rain, my fingers slide on the keys, playing the melody of your favourite song, and I pray so hard, no lighting will appear in the sky.


DiAmaya Dawn

Written by

Reader, writer, editor, poet, dancer, music addict. Japanophile, pluviophile and attracted by darkness. Part normal, part Greek.


Whispers Captured in Dawns and Vice Versa

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