"Last Night We Danced"

by Jeph Johnson


One corpse escorts another with rigor mortis choreography, moving without music; each pirouette shifting her visage through another stage of her cameo's silhouette.


His mind aglow and her face made up.


He rotated while she revolved: A girl awhirl testing his resolve.


Festive tranquillity paralyzed in a snowglobe ballroom.


A pageantry beholden uniquely to ideals merely blinked at through thrice jaded eyes.


He spent every idyllic day idolizing elegance by recognizing her renown. 


Had he chose instead to invade the cherished inner sanctum, intimate encounters may not have ended with yearning.


Every ethereal dream dance, when juxtaposed with the ugliness of reality, promotes premature curtain calls, not to mention, apprehensive bows and nervous curtsies. 

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