Our smiles are a firm handshake. An unspoken agreement. You look at me from across the room. I feel your wild stare, carefully pulling away at each thread, button and clasp. Already, the puppet show has begun. The strings untangle, tugging, jerking at my joints. The words we let spill around our feet are like pieces of wrapping paper torn off by excited hands, prettier than what is inside. The exchange is never parallel. I put your words into the ashtray and keep smoking. You take mine and chew them up, savoring every bite. And when you swallow the small pieces of myself I offer you, you are only drunk with lust.
The slow dance begins. I am a better dancer than you. You hold me close so that I can feel the heat of your hungry heart while you crush my toes and squeeze my fingers. I want to move to the music, rhythmic and penetrating but you, you can only hear yourself whispering sweet garbage into my ear. Every step and turn becomes more painful as I try to pull away but you are stronger than me so I let myself melt into your grip. Dizzy. Intoxicated. Weak.
After the dance you stain my cheek with your kiss. You look at me like a hunter does his prey. I run, without hesitation. A wild animal seeking refuge from certain death. I am panting, sweating, trembling from fear. I haven't looked back to even see if you are after me. I don't want to know. I don't care. I don't want to dance with you anymore.
Relaxed and calm, still sore and bruised, I can barely remember the features of your shadowy face. The sound of your voice echos through my skull, blending in to all the other noise from the past. I remember you but only the feel of your sour touch and, of course, that beautiful smile.
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