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Poem

We met in the summer of 1780,
When violins wept beneath candlelight.
A classical concert in Vienna’s old heart —
Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Chopin —
The kind of night that lives forever.

She sat beside me, dressed in black velvet,
Her hair like raven silk,
Eyes full of autumn skies and secret songs.
A Jewish rose blooming in a world too cold.

When The Marriage of Figaro filled the hall,
She turned to me.
Our eyes met —
Two souls suddenly remembering a story
That hadn’t yet been written.

After the last note fell like snow,
We stood in silence.
Then I spoke:
“Susan, will you walk with me… forever?”
She smiled — like moonlight bending through lace —
And whispered, “Yes.”

We held hands down 11th Avenue,
Not running, just floating —
As if love had wrapped the world in slow motion.
Each streetlamp bowed as we passed,
Each shadow sang.

But time is a jealous clock.

One morning, she was gone.
No note.
No breath.
Only a red scarf left on our bench —
And the scent of music still dancing in the wind.

Some say she was a dream.
Others swear she was an angel in disguise.
All I know is:
Since that night, every time I hear Mozart,
My heart turns to 1780…
To her eyes…
To Susan Brumel.

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