PROSE–POETIC: Sometimes It Feels Like My Toes Are Playing the Piano

© Mimi Wolske, January 2014

All Rights Reserved


Someone once commented you and I are different. You laughed and gave me a wink. I took those words as a threat to our relationship—a challenge from a female who had once been your lover.

I knew then as much as I know now that you didn’t love her. Did she know? She was in, at the least of dreams, hopefulness of getting you back…that’s what I believed. Did you think the same thing about the way she acted?

About the things she said?

About the words she posted for the world to read?

My heart choked the breath between lungs and its escape when I read her post that she still loved you. I asked you about it. What did it mean?

Why wouldn’t you tell her to stop that?

Especially so publicly?


Oh, puh-lease…I am not paranoid. I can read…all the words and the obvious signs from her. So can everyone else. Why is it important for her words to remain when mine cannot even appear?

Lyrics and poems you write for me…to me…have my name removed when you decide to post them to your blog or social network. Only you and I have the original versions; or so you tell me.

Do you send them to her?

Does her name replace mine?

I don’t hang on to past lovers…they’re past…unimportant…out-of-sight-out-of-mind. Who does?

Unless they want the person to continue loving them for some reason. What reason?

I can’t pretend not to love you.

It’s impossible.

I can’t conceal my emotions at the bottom of some Canadian lake of under a stone in any city in the U.S where your love squeezes life into me. Not when your arms are like an olive branch—holding onto me as I cry, embracing as we make love, reconciling…

My legs don’t know how to run away from you and your love, especially when every breath, every thought, every image I paint and word I write carries another piece of my love for you…to you.

Sometimes it feels like my toes are playing the piano.

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