we heard a symphony; saw a ballet
determined to show how you must move
like the tiny girls before our eyes.
along the crescendos your fingers traced
your shoulder blades; my eyes traced
those gams of yours—dark, imaginative,
dry from the winter.
your palms spin around your cheekbones
while your tortures mask your eyes
in a mascarade: no one will ever know
if your face is in the spotlight.
above the cosmos dance uninterrupted
to sixteenth-notes with a light staccato
that alienates the stomping from my bones—
brittle, insecure, pulsing softly.
each note is a letter; each bar a word
in my obituary—your little operetta
so that you (when i die from sweetness)
can dance about on my tiny grave
with your chorus of tiny girls.
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