Warm rays of sunlight peek through the crack between the curtains and touch softly on my skin. She tells me they make no sound, and I'm glad. With the curtains closed our worlds become almost the same. At any rate, the light is just as warm to me as it is to her. If I close my eyes, we can be one.
I can see the keys before me, can see the soft twisting of light they reflect as I play them, but they are silent to me. I only know the music they make is beautiful because she tells me so. My world is bright and colourful, but it is quiet. She is the only one who speaks to me.
Not just with the flourishes of her hands as she signs to me how pretty the new tune I've written is, but also in the soft touch of her fingers on my skin, her light breath on my face, and the worlds she creates on canvas. She tells me I am beautiful in a way I can never know, and somehow it means more when she says it. She's not the only one who does; so many others have called me a genius, an inspiration. A deaf pia