I trace his name into the keys weathered and yellow with age.

I love him with my whole goddamn heart and sometimes, one the rare occasion of him being sober, I was in love with him, too.

Dangerous territory, I know. Best friends shouldn’t.. have the urges I do.

It wasn’t like those stories, where they are both are in love and don’t know the other is, too.

He likes to tell me about his girlfriend’s lips, I just try not to stare.

My fingers dance along lines of black and white, my foot stamping on the instrument’s “feet”. The only sound, the only words in notes that can define this, is sweet Augustana.

And I wish I could play some of my own, but I can barely remember how to speak English in his presence, right in front of me or in my thoughts.

I close my eyes and hum, weaving his name into the pounding of rythym being tiptoed, light and fast across the ivorybone dashboard.

Warm, salty tears run down my face, tainted black with heavy makeup.

“Damnnit, Charlie,” Im barely a whisper