Undulate by Meghana Mysore

The twinkle of the stars
becomes the twinkle of her eye
as she sits, upright, on the
embroidered, leathered bench.
Her fingers reach out to the keys,
and though the clock reminds her
of the hour, she cannot tear herself
from the comforting notes of music,
of poetry. One note at a time
she plays, feeling sad and elated
and awake and dead all the same.
On this bench, at this hour,
she does not think of the things waiting,
or the people holding on pause,
listening to her as she breathes in the notes,
wondering what she might play next.
She does not remember
the clutter of her work desk,
does not entertain
the thoughts of madness
or anxiousness.
In this moment,
she is here,
playing a song
that she knows,
a song that cannot change
as the weather and the tormented human life do.
She is playing the song for
its repetition, for when she plays it,
she neither feels alive nor dead.
She feels suspended
on a constant sinusoidal wave,
a wave that will not deceive her
or send her into the lonesome unknown.