Sunday, 4 January 2015

It was the smell of nail varnish and regret

She had smiled at me across the aching chasm that was the dance floor. A courtesy smile, one made subsequent to locking briefly into eye contact. There was no beckoning behind it. Yet I felt it grip me. I let it pull me toward her.

Loneliness and solitude seek solace in sin.

I danced up against her and she was polite for a moment, continuing to dance and merely edging away. I edged with her, grinding forwards as she ground back. She began to get flustered, to shoo me away with uncomfortable faces and slight hand gestures. Her friends tried to dance between us, but they were no match for my gasconade. I had planned to introduce myself, but now it seemed too late. Better to just walk her out the door when no one was looking. To spirit her away to a darkened place where spirits dare not tread.

To bang on the drum.
To stick in my thumb.
To tear out her plumb.
To watch her succumb.

To. feel. her. go. numb.

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