It took seven shots for me to dance barefoot in the snow. Eight for you to tell me I was graceful. Your beer goggles never interrupted my rum song and I spun so fast, I fell into your bed. When we woke that afternoon as I whispered, "Morning to you, my inebriation." I found my feet trapped within the sheets. Not accidentally wound, but wrapped like something precious. The point-shoes of some prima ballerina I would never resemble A few more afternoons and I became your brown eyed replacement for cigarettes breathed in with some hint of a denied addiction. We became obsessed. You, with my cafe au lait stretched over hip bones and I, with our fingers interlaced they looked like piano keys... Before long you took the liberty of writing ballet on those fingertips but I forgot to tell you, sober...I can only salsa. So you dropped my hand and as I pitied the notes crashing staccato to the floor, I realized no one would be able to read us anyway. Now I've started to speak in anticipated apologies and begging for silence I pressed my words against yours. My mother always said I had diamonds on the inside but when you kissed me you cut your tongue. You are too squeamish for blood so have become mute save for the complaints that some iris stole your nicotine. It amazing to me how quickly music turns to silence. Soon other women will begin to lather themselves in your compliments and your alcohol while my claustrophobic hips sway without rhythm in the corner. I had never realized that catcalls had a rhythm until I danced to yours, skin frozen hard like ballet slippers. But that's all that it was catcalls, skin, and snow.
Created: Jun 16, 2010Document Media