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
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
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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