Chopin and Sawdust

Sprinkling cigarette dust
along the frame of our photograph,
humming to Chopin, sipping upon reverberations,
I delved into your pupils with my fingers.
I found scenes from The Nutcracker,
Enormous Russian Bears dancing with wondrous youth,
Gallant Royalties giggling on the ice
in awe of their Neverland.

I found you in hymns of Irish Folk Tales
centuries of maturity,
aged to perfection.

I found you street artists,
impoverished and unshaven,
aloof to the candid and unwilling,
tapping into something thicker.

I found you in violin strings,
elegance amalgamates with ferocity,
Sounding heartfelt moans and cries into the clouds.

I caught you in the city lights
shading parts of your forehead,
smiling at me so playfully with your eyes.

Alas, scars rest on your eyelashes.
You are caked with sawdust,
and I cannot sing the flames away.

I shall settle for memoirs,
and decorated picture frames.