A Phoenix's Lament Monologue
I don't express my feelings. I don't acknowledge things like feelings and stuff like that, I guess because those things aren't really acknowledged in my house. So I just suppress things and channel those emotions into anger and hate and pain, into a snobbish pureblood prat, on the outside, at least. But there are some things that I do that make me feel. Feel something other than this pain, this anger, this. Because when I'm playing, everything fades away. There is no Mark upon my left forearm. Everything is peaceful, blissfully so, if only for a moment. It's just me and the keys, white and black, my fingers just flowing over them, and I can feel the music, the magic of that sound. And suddenly, my hands stop shaking, and I'm in control. Music is mine.
Then, I heard her. She came into my life like a trumpet, and blew everything away. She flowed through my wounds, the crystalline sound of a harp's last refrain, healing my wounds with every mote. Her eyes held valleys and rivers and mountains, like stars shining on a Green Grass filled plain that showed compassion, looking in her eyes, a person could hear a phoenix's lament. Her ebony hair glowing soft in the moonlight, the touch of hands, a voice, speaking loving words with true intention. Every time we touch, kiss, hug, is like the first, sweet and magical. She is my piano, to have and to hold, she is gentle, to love and to cherish, she is mine, a delicate string in my piano, an honoured flower of springtime spirited deep into my heart. For the saying is true, as I know it to be so. The grass is always greener on the other side. She is my new peaceful passion, has always been. My spirit, my passion, my love, my wife, my Astoria.