to the piano teacher

love is a shelf where i've kept you preserved,
next to a sign which says please
do not touch.

i applied to be your piano teacher
and you taught me to play the piano.

we said little of the time apart.

we said little as we described the shape
of the large, white elephants we could never name &
still, i did not feel we were lying.

but you would leave me

in this house with too many rooms
while everyone around me left for work.

while i stayed home.
i played your piano & no one would hire me
to play your piano.

no one would tell me the chords.
i would ask them the names of the chords, i would tell them
i quit guitar to hide my lonely palms.

i would press you into the long white keys.

the first time i met you

we were both taking the elevator
& we were both going to the fourth floor,
only i got out at the third floor
because i was nervous, and also,
because i thought it was the fourth floor,
so i took the stairs and hoped
you thought i had some brief sort of business on the third floor.
once before that, i thought i'd seen you
at the grocery store & for some reason
i thought you'd seen me, too. i had headphones around my neck
when i got in the elevator
& you could hear paper back writer, because the music
was on loud and the headphones weren't very good.
you talked about guitars & the first time you'd heard the song.

then i watched you disappear into your mind for a minute.

you know, i read in this book that autistic children can't stand being touched because they become overwhelmed with emotion and it feels a lot like drowning but at that time i hadn't read it & i didn't know as much about dairy cows & i'd never even heard of a squeezing machine.