Palm Strokes


His fingers are soft and cautious on the keys.

He must not mess a note otherwise he would have to restart from the beginning. He squirmed at the idea of mistake or imperfection.

He couldn't disappoint, so he continued. He adds his palms to it.

Making sure he doesn't put to much pressure, as to not prolong the notes. It wasn't solely for the sole member of audience he had but it was also for himself.

These beautiful sounds heal, they mollify his remorseful soul but tampers with his memories as well.

When it ends it always leaves him wondering "If only things hadn't occurred that way... ".

His palms stoke over and over. The sensation is a delicacy for the touch, it's generous and delicious. So sweet, so pure, innocent.

The color reminds him of his beloved sibling, gone under such tragic circumstances. White like the moon, soiled by his fingerprints.

He interrupts himself. The music dissipates timidly.

"Please don't stop..." He hears, echoing in the back of his head. A faint murmur bringing him out of his brain like the sunshine blinding him after the darkest night.

"Please...Keep going..." The demand's volume gets louder and louder as if it were approaching him.

But if he continues it might, it might resurface altogether. All the suffering, all the pain, the emptiness, the LOSS ! He is visibly afraid, paralyzed. The key does not emit sound anymore.

He inhales then exhales, it seems that doing so exorcises the fear and cowardice out of him. He proceeds to finish the music.

"Yes, yes, yes."

He opens his mouth to declare but only a trembling sigh of delight manages to find it's way out. As he spills all the contents of his soul. It trickles down porcelain cheeks to gorgeously crafted nerves.

This is the reason why he has forsaken the outside world. He needs nothing more than this. A long nailed, pale hand from underneath him, grips firmly his arm, penetrating slightly into his burn decorated epidermis. He does not mind, all is a numb after the music fades. He decides to unravel himself to the vagrant vagabond in front of him.

Angelic white cradles him in it's bosom, the friction making the pearls roll between them.

Finger marks that never scar.

Palm strokes that never irritate, only soften remorse.


Okay, hope you liked my little story/poem. It's about Ruben (or should i say Ruvik), Leslie and music. It's free for interpretation.