When things become too deliciously beautiful, they stop,
As when even the verbose Mozart pauses for what seems an eternity
During passages found in the slow movement of piano concerto number 17.
It is the natural outcome when extremely beautiful music is slow,
The music wants to stop itself so it can listen.
The werewolf disappears when she has no place to go.
Time resumes after love, and we realize life will go on and love will not.
Where was the music during the love?
Music belongs to time, but love does not.
Music exists in time, in itself, and so it never has time for itself.
Music laughs at its predicament and invents new tempos in which to die
But love only becomes offended. Love hates waiting, marching, watching. Love hates time.
Music stops and resumes. When love stops, it does not resume.
Love exists outside of time.
The werewolf disappears when she has no place to go.
I waited for her. She was either absent or slow.
I might as well confess what you already know.
She turned into a werewolf
And allowed me to love her,
But only when she was a werewolf.
Love made her for me a werewolf completely.
I loved her falsely but completely.
The sadism inside her masochism grew,
Fed by my masochism. Her sadism knew
I was not a werewolf; the werewolf grew
Enraged when I pleaded, I want to love all of you!
I was the innocent one who turned
Her into a werewolf and I burned
For her—as a werewolf
And loved her—as a werewolf.
My masochist loved her sadist
And since there is some sadism
In every masochist, I delighted
In the dilemma of our love
In which our sadism and masochism,
Fiendishly intertwined,
Made me delight in her body
And the strange inconsistencies of her mind.
But when the werewolf was away,
I was afraid; I needed her to eat my flesh
And the music to resume.
I spend long nights staring out the window at the beautiful moon.
It is almost as beautiful as music.