The Tears that Fell

There is a lady in the flickering light of the rose-tinted ballroom. Her name is The Tears that Fell. Watch her dance, lover, as the rain-soaked winds stroke like the master of an oiled viola the misty window panes revealing the night. And watch her dance, enthralled, and listen.

There is music streaming from the old gramophone on the musky wooden drawers. The old player sings of remembrance and half-forgotten years; old joys and sorrows; and loves that were lost, but treasured. You almost hear yourself singing its haunting strains as you lean against the creaking wall of the ballroom, a tear slowly forming. As your eyes well up the light forms rainbows in your eyes.

There is a beam of the moon on the rose of the floor. Today as if enthralled, too, the moon turns its old face and watches with the intensity of one torn and lost; watch with him. The silhouette of the lady sighs as each time it passes the touch of the sun's companion, as if meeting a lover once again, and in each stutter of breath from the naked bulb of light we see the grace of silk; a sublime flow. Watch.

There is a light in the eyes of the lady of the ballroom. It catches each beam, pinpoint and flicker, and shatters it to rainbow fragments like a diamond on a forgotten ring. Remember, lover, and watch. As the music lifts her like a dove on the winds she glides, rises, swirls, each step a tribute to a memory; and a flame. You feel a burning in that broken soul, you feel a pain in that tearing heart; watch as each tear sparkles.