Mirror Dancing

We dance to endless music 
sometimes floating as lightly as web strands, 
as dust motes pirouetting in a beam of sun
Other times in pounding floorshaking
to match the drumming in our pulse.
Feet and crimson passion keep the time as
I reach out in your direction.
My love
my perfect partner
my ebb and flow. 
Bonefelt rhythms in faultless synchronicity,
we are flawless in our anticipation of the next steps;
a turn of the head
a secret smile
like beautiful markings India inked on a barn owl
 we match
and swirl.
Until I reach once more towards you
a bit further
and flinch
stare brokenly
looking again
 and once again..
 I pause to watch your face, searching for signs of the scorching
the blazing bond we share.
Your calm, familiar gaze
your deep eyes
reflect my ardor but you never move in 
never move any closer.
The distance between us is exquisitely matched and timed
but unreachable
and a coldness swirls into the gap separating us
chill and lifeless as a satin drapery.
Like a bayonet of ice punched into my heart I realize you 
will not 
can not 
Will only mimic my echoes
and follow my leading feet…
And I turn
heartsick and sorrowful
to begin the search,
once again,
 for another.
A partner who will catch fire as I burn
who will sing the songs only I can hear and
fit our feet into that music
that endless music
that only our special twosome can create… 
And I close the door sadly,
without a last glance,
leaving the room empty
and the cheap, crooked mirror
 hanging dustily alone….

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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