Payton Fischer

He.

He. The heat of a vintage lamp watched idly by as he weaved his life into piano keys. Just as his adolescence made mistakes, he hit the wrong keys, playing when he shouldn’t, talking out of tune. Fueled by the feeling received from the melody he continued creating errors, not a traditional, wise path but one that tickled his brain in stimulation. The chemical-infused notes signify the ever-changing ambiance in the fever that was our prematurity in juvenile adoration. I imagine coming behind him, brushing his shoulders with the softest fingertips I could muster as he plays. Enraptured by the notes, I don’t hear his missteps. I had never heard the song before, at least never like this.