She wanted to dance, just one last time,
to grab the violin strings of Libertango,
the triumph and the spice of breaking dawn.
If only he was here, with last summer hand in hand.
If only the blue eyes could strike the crying fragrance.
The rest is all in vain, colorless and in pain.
Two steps back, high heels and the dress black.
Two steps ahead and a grip to make her sway.
Dancing tango, steps and pyre, their tango.
Slaves of the rhythm so known,
he will close the embrace, she will lead the chase,
flowing vigor and the ground walking drizzle.
She would seduce him, let all shields down,
he would follow the breath, let her rest on his chest,
and the music will veil the faces once pale.
On and off beats, on and off bodies,
wrapped legs, arms like arrows,
flash on silky lips in a horizontal move at eclipse.
And the crowd, hearts and lives on pause,
staring eyes, filling caves, stealing grace,
striving riots of somber days with hail.
© 2011 Broken Sparkles