Piano Boy

He comes around every night playing the piano. I can see him. He walks past my desk, same raven hair, same scar every day. He drops his backpack and sits. His fingers run over the keys. He looks at his fingers, never at the glass, afraid to miss a note. He plays for them all, playing them to sleep. He sits and plays. I listen. I can feel, feel what he feels by listening to his tunes. Sometimes they’re happy, he’s had a good day. Sometimes they’re loving, he must think about his special someone. Sometimes they’re serious, he is afraid. Sometimes his tunes take a different tone, sad and agonising. He plays and we all know. She’s been around today and looked at him. The girl with the mermaid hair. The fierce walk. The sparkling, speaking eyes. The piano girl. I have seen her in today, she played for him again. He must’ve heard her. He walked past, hesitating again. He came in today, staring blankly ahead. I could’ve know he’d play for her. He comes in, he plays her song, every night.