Dead Ringer.

The rafters shake, the windows break, the stake the lake of fire underneath the floor, they bump they grind and sweat and let themselves get lost in the beat and think the heat is from the dancing and he is still romancing the stone locked beneath her breast bone, dead ringer, no tone, she is prone to forgetfulness and bliss and this is not what she was looking for, outside the door he is still waiting underneath an apple tree…

Beauty take a bite for me and see how much I love you…

He followed her then everywhere enchanted by her vacant stare, turned himself into the air that filled her lungs to get inside and hide and wait until she fell asleep and breathed him out again, by her side, she left the light on and he whispered a song in her ear to stir her heart and start it beating again because he couldn’t live without her.

In the morning she awoke to find there was no beast, and found her peace of mind standing in a man she knew, tried and tested, strong and true, and recognized the first time, because love was blind.

But what then of the dancers, subjects of enhancers glowing pink and orange fired eyes, aching moans and mournful sighs, that bind the sick together with things that everybody knows, like Mickey Mouse ties, rainbow clown fros, and tunes from shows the living don’t remember. The blood thirsty and God’s biggest bitch, or maybe the Devil, but that’s a switch, since when does he chase what he already has?

And that’s when she realized the dance was not a dance and they weren’t looking for a story and what they called her wasn’t what she was but what they wanted her to be. She had passed then on the cup they called grail because who knew if it was true?


Categories: Fiction, prose, writing

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