Ghost Fingers

My hands hit the keys before I think—

a stumble, then the music breathes,

old rivers curling through my veins.

The ivory edges worn and yellowed,

knuckles twitch like they remember

things I forgot.

A song swells, falters, pulls me under

and I’m no longer sitting here,

but somewhere younger, desperate,

chasing notes like they might save me.

Each chord a ghost finger pressed

against a shuttered door,

slipping through the cracks,

still whispering what I once was.