Off-White in Color

She plays piano, alone.
No one is there to hear
The striking of keys,
Black and faded yellow
Strange sounds, like an old
Memory from an attic
Where I was yesterday,
Sorting through my life -
Funny how a summation in
Photos is all that is needed
To remind you of where you were
And where you are not;
No, and I could not
Finish leafing through pages of regret
Which brought forth knowledge,
Clouding my vision and
Running down my face,
That when I went back
Downstairs
You would still not be there;
Except for the vague sounds,
Of fingertips on ivory
Keys so piss-colored
Like the walls, from
The cigarette smoke,
You can only see it if you
Move the bookcases and
Compare it to the depressing
Eggshell-off-white, I didn't like that color either
And maybe the scent of old sex
Love made 40 years ago
Do you play to forget it?
The feeling of hands
Running up and down the crevices and skin
Which are now wrinkled
Dry, yet smell of
Baby powder, fine perfume, and
Death, who, dapper fellow
Awaits eagerly on the doorstep
With a bouquet of posies in his hand.

Then she called my name, for water, and I was upset,
For she called me by your lover's name instead
Isn't her name like
An exotic dish of food
Sustenance, no doubt
Food for thought,
Mine is simple wordplay on myth
Like what I am, a myth,
Named after what she thought was a sensuous Goddess
Of the Moon, it sounds romantic,
But Diana is known for many things,
Even as being the biggest dyke in Greek mythology
She killed the man who watched her bathing with her maidens
Beguiling in her beauty,
The irony is not lost to me,
A woman who loves both sexes,
But whose mother acknowledges only one.
Huntress, alone with her animals, often kind, more often cold - Diana;
That is now what I have become.

My heart, it feels, but
Not what I would prefer;
Only with those who are friends,
Can I be kind,
With those I desire, I am lost.
When I begin to feel the stirrings
Of what I want,
I claw the feelings out
Like a mongrel dog
Who chews off his own leg
When caught in a trap,
For either way my heart will feel the pain;
Whether it is unrequited
Or what could be something true,
Regardless of how long it takes, I know that it will end.

Where is the sensitivity
From which I have always
Said was my most cherished attribute?
It is nearly departed, with the wind,
Which now blows a frigid,
Dusty path through my heart and out the door,
Down to the street
Where sonatas of sadness,
Struck on sour keys
Of yellowed memories
Are born.