a warm alone

this house is empty.
i am alone.
it's such a warm 'alone'
no one else but the red-haired dog who sleeps on the chestnut-legged couch,
her legs tucked into her underbelly,
her snoring is quiet, twirling hesitantly to the ceiling
like a smouldering smoke.

the lights are halfway-dimmed
and my eyes want to do the same.
but the piano leans against the wall
and the bench beckons me.
i let my shadow take me towards the source of wonder and beauty
with eighty-eight black and white keys.
my fingers conquer their territory
plinking each key for musical colours
harmonies upon harmonies
and my voice joins - 
singing lyrics to a song, long lost,
thrown into the sea like a ship in a bottle
forever buried in the sand
but it resurfaced on its own as if the sand was just another ocean - 

and our symphony sailed
through the empty house
on a scarlet ocean
like emily dickinson's famous request
for a cup of sunset.

the rhapsody echoed against the halls.
alone in this warm house is the one opportunity
for beauty.