The shades define his antique features,

the gentle lines on his slightly parted lips,

the dark circles obscured by the round glasses reflecting the light from the camera flash,

the mad look in his eyes and the firm stance of his blockish jaw,

the way his hair is frozen about his face, as if being whipped in the frenzy of his exuberant being as the picture was taken.

 

The whites slowly powder into ash,

the sweat on his forhead turning the soft flakes into a cinder paste,

which turns black with age, matching the notes on the lines of the staff, so defined compared to his soft edges: the contrast which makes her finally believe that she is looking at a picture, a snapshot in the life of the busy man before her.

 

And yet, she could not help but imagine how strong his hands would be,

gathering strength and entitlement from every whip of the baton,

becoming ever more skilled with each pen stroke scratching across the paper,

once as pristine as the lighted part of his face and now blotched with the shadows of music that haunt his features.

 

And still, the picture makes her shudder,

whether from the sterness of his eyes,

the raw power inscribed upon his brow,

the swift jet of hair streaked across his magnificent head,

or the angle at which he glared forth from the picture with such an art as to render women in fear and fascination she knows very well.

 

The waltz that issued forth from his brillant mind leads her heart through the steps,

One two three One two three breath One two three One two three breath,

The violin making her legs quiver,

the oboe sending the tingle up her spine,

and the brass echoing within her dizzy mind,

spinning ever in the firm grasp of the man bringing the music to life,

One two three One two three breath One two three One two three breath.

 

And then, he is just a picture.

A memory.

A sound.

He was a waltz, dearest Dmitri.