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Jaded Ballroom Masquerade
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Dark Poetry I touched upon the fragile silk.
His skin so smooth, so warm.
But calloused hands, I feel, skim this delicate ivory form.
Mine—my substance, my body.
And this illusion, this frail lullaby he sings so sweetly.
So tempting.
A beckoning.
A beacon of light from the coast.
And I alone am the host of this pervasive ball.
Where apparitions dance like dolls and porcelain mannequins are strung
with the twine
that binds
and pulls our dark romance across the floor.
Ghosts of his fingertips glide beneath the cloth.
As close to a dream—I dare to call his name.
And nothing outside this frame.
The fame of the ballroom dancers.
We move to his song.
Knowing every piece of this night is so very wrong.
He moves to melody.
Harmony.
Feeling where he can.
And I cum to find the colors are as bright as his eyes.
Vibrant as the jade and silver and gold.
I float away and come to find.
He is not but the illusion—the frail lullaby he sang so sweetly.
Wiped away neatly.
And pushed to the side.
Still—we bear the masks we’ve made.
In this dream of masquerade.
