It was a beautiful night, the sort of night when the moon is larger and more luminous than the eyes that stare back at you from the mirror called hope&fervent desire. On such a night, beauty itself could be overlooked for something more profound and hopeful. It was a spring night, strange music wafted by. The night was like a sigh.
The night was like a teardrop on the cheek of Venus. It was beauty that made it both sad and desirable. She wanted to freeze the night and store it as stardust and hope that the jar that would contain this night as immortal&sparkling stardust would never get lost. It is the custom of jars like this to get lost because you can never label them. You stand risk of exposure and ridicule if you dare to do such a thing.
She, observer of this night, of the rare&curious blue moon, of an impossible depth of horrified emotion. This night, the night of depraved&delicious lust, the night of a terrified love, the night of a thousand moans and a single tear. This night is the night to be broken and powdered into glistening memory, a single jar of promise. Promise that would sustain several lifetimes.
Standing alone at the edge of a lonely pool, staring at a distorted reflection, knowing only the simulacrum of this night. So much more desirable than the real, so much more necessary than the ideal. Forever Narcissus, forever young, forever sad, forever in anticipation. Such is the necessity of desire&knowledge.
Overhead the stars exploded into a million constellations of ever-expanding proportions. The universe cannot be contemplated. She is nothing, what she feels may perhaps be something, who can be sure? Stardust is merely another idea, the jar is a fancy, the poem is a whimsy. There is no truth, there is only the horror of realization.
Play for me a Nocturne for Violin and Piano.