Rachmaninoff: Piano Concerto no.2 op.18

This song is late nights with texts books, incomprehensible writing, weak tea and flashcards. This song is my bedsheets and calendar, I know this song too well.

This song is what was playing when you called me, two in the morning, sobbing. I didn’t know what to say, how to act, this song gave you a shoulder to cry on, maybe this song could have healed you.

This song ran through my head when I realised it was over, that we wouldn’t speak again, that I had lost my best friend. The notes are my heart beat, hammering it in, I am still alive, still alive, still alive, still alive, sill alive.

Swells of music- god I drew you on my arm countless times, your soul was rosebuds and grape vines, cheap markers and pens.

Fast, loud- I was angry I guess but anger and sadness were one and the same. The music stopped and I realised what would happened. It started again, I accepted, moved on, heavy, this is so heavy.

I cried once and you felt bad and I didn’t want you too but I guess that’s us, we cry and we love each other and we try not to show it and the music grows- each note is my heartbeat I am still alive, still alive, still alive.

And you, the music is picking up again. Two melodies, I haven’t lost you, you are still alive, still alive, still alive.

So I say “Thank you Rachmaninoff,” and then, “Thank you Ms Fedorova,” (the pianist, I saw her and fell in love instantly) thank you for my friend and thank you for me, we are still alive, still alive, still alive.