Monday, May 11, 2009

The Dancing Girl

She danced in her very own secret purple dress, a distracted smile on her face and her heart on her sleeve.
I edged away quietly into the darkness, but I could feel her brown eyes lock on to mine.
Years later, there would be hurt and blame and a world's worth of tears as her nails made intricate designs on my skin.
Designs that wouldn't fade.

There would be days when death would come to play, and we'd stand around exchanging worried looks as we watched her laugh her way around the people we knew.
Secrets that twisted around what we thought were hearts.
I don't dance.
And I wear only armor on my sleeve.

We would grow and drift away, an occasional shout to let the other know we still remembered.
There would be acceptance, even through my mumbled apologies.
There would be a twisted sense of understanding, like the smile we sometimes shared.
I know why I'd take that bullet for you.
A second chance is rare, but dare I ask for more?
There are no lies.
We stick to delusions.

We have nothing to show for all of the past except fading words and scars.
Somehow, I don't mind.
As long as the music doesn't stop, we'll be fine.

I would rather watch from the sidelines.

But she's always been the dancing kind.


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