Chopin in my ears; life slows down and I
close eyes and see a moment that might be
or might not be; a drop of last night's rain
dripping down, falling from roof to stone,
in a second, in an hour, time crawls
I see a girl walking and talking with
words on her lips, thoughts not yet fully
formed, perhaps telling another soul
the quickly fading memories of last night's
dream, and the emotion -- oh the emotion!
"It felt so real," she says, "I was in love."
Chopin's Nocturne speeds up, slows down, ends
Imagination follows suit; time returns to the
"speed of life," as Keane would undoubtedly
point out, quoting himself, were he here...
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