Tears, pearls and grapefruits, he was a valve manning the flow from atria to ventricles, the planes pulling in and taking off. Our hearts beat in three, waltzing to and fro, here and there. But we danced not, a grand piano crashed through the scaffolding between us, rhapsodizing the silence, unbeknownst to us. We waltzed on. He wrote Nothing on my arm. I wrote Something on his arm. He shook his head and held out my arm. I wrote Anything on his arm. He wrote Everything on my arm, and then. He kissed Everything until it had faded, and Nothing was left. The canvas of stars suspended above us finally lowered, the curtains split, the morning light arrived, but not at normal speed, rather, the speed of sound, the sound of music, a waltz, no doubt. The planes were made of iron, the runways of ice, our hearts plastic. Plastic toys you have to wind up, to hear, undoubtedly, a waltz.