Roundelay

I never asked why you
         invited me to dance, 
  only grasped your hand in mine 
 and began to spiral about
   the floor. 
  It was intoxicating.
     I could breathe in the dew
      of your thighs. You could 
     feel my manic fluids waltz
    quickly through my arteries.
 I was anchorless and at your mercy, 
                                         sir.
     We were linked by a live wire,
  injecting energy into the fleshy parts
      in a feverish tango. It was devilish.
               It was sinful.
   Our brows wet and faces 
   deliciously gnarled, we were 
        a collective. A gathering up 
     of passions, which were strewn about 
                the room.
   Still, I am conscious of the death’s head.
       The surfaces of the room are strange, cold steel.
  And the way that silence echoes is monstrous.
    I function to alleviate your pain.
    You are here to dredge up my love,
         that I know will remain unreturned.
   After the music swells, I see your focus shift.
     I see the black beads hidden within your eyes.
    You leave to wash away the pearlescent 
            marmalade we have been bathed in, 
      and return to me as a drastically different boy.
            I am content upon the ballroom
        floor, mesmerized by all the blood already collected there.
     I’m a masochistic martyr who pulsates with a need
                 to dance with you again
       and again 
            before you escape me,
  as you told me you would.

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