Fallen Angel

My harpsichord is still.

It has been many years

since its keys were pressed

by my fingers.

That was my own melody—

"Don Juan Triumphant";

my melody, but written for her.

Christine.

When I first heard her voice,

it was as though

Heaven

had opened its gates

to this lonely Phantom.

Paradise,

however intangible,

was to be mine.

Her fingers against my face

were the brush of a dove's feathers

on a gargoyle of stone.

My own mother would not look on me;

it was she who gave me my first mask.

She would not look,

but this creature of light would.

She did not find me repulsive,

as others had.

I believed in her love.

Yes, it was years ago

that she chose

the scorpion.

She sacrificed all

for her friends' lives.

Her love instilled life

into this last mask of despair and madness.

But the scorpion's poison

had touched her,

and she would not stay;

so I allowed her to go.

I longed for her to stay,

for perhaps two spirits—

the Opera Ghost and the Angel—

could share eternity together.

It was not to be.

I have seen her since that day,

but she is not

the Christine that I knew.

Life on earth

has changed her song.

It pains me,

this transformation.

"Don Juan Triumphant"

still stands

in its place on the harpsichord.

A tribute

to the way I shall always remember her—

for, to me,

she will remain

my Angel of Music.