does not dance the fandango

“a mystical spell,” andrei said, “you want 
of me, thinking
 
about me?” “do you really, nina?”
 
she reached for his white lace shirt
as he pulled away
 
weakened fingers grabbed, one by 
one thread and buttons
 
flew through still, stale air, down
hallways of contempt
 
he managed to open the bedroom
door that stood in 
 
front of him, doorknob turned slowly
 
he turned slowly to see undisturbed 
silk sheets where they
 
once danced
danced once 
 
in front of a music band
wooden floor, worn
 
from the love of two moving
as art
 
her face painted with porcelain
beauty, bodies heated
 
now
 
she started crying, tears escaped down
her face, 
 
too quickly for his hand to catch, took
her in his uninviting arms
 
she wore a long white, silk dress,
embroidered lace
 
accompanied
 
not felt by him
feelings numb
 
“why did you lie to me, nina?”
 
a voice and footsteps crept up a 
walkway to her house
 
her lover opened one front entrance
like a cribcracker opened 
 
safes carved into walls behind 
oil canvases
 
painted with amateur colors
 
andrei drew his 5 shot pistol, top 
of  stairs, fired three times
 
arnost crumpled on carpet where
things are swept under
 
andrei checked, two bullets left,
she fumbled to lock
 
the bedroom door
 
a loud bang, bullet splintered wood
 
he entered
 
she was on her knees with embroidered 
lace covering her eyes
 
her tears
 
arms at her side as one does in
a coffin
 
“BANG!” blood splattered wall
 
smoking gun tightly clenched in 
gripped fingers
 
his body lay lifeless at her feet
 
does not dance the fandango…
 
 
 
Copyright © 05/04/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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