she loved to dance to love ballads.
but she always danced alone.
he - also loved to dance.
but never with her - each night he swayed with potent gin.
whirled with Mary Jane.
he'd waltz through the door each Friday night,
Jack still bleeding into his tongue, two of his shirt buttons still undone.
too in love to stand.
she'd drag him to the bedroom, poisoned by the smell of perfume.
sandalwood and cherry -
still lingered on his hands.
scarlet strokes smeared across his cheek.
he'd lay upon the sheets that smelled of vanilla,
but would soon smell of whiskey and another woman's perfume.
and the silk pillow would become the sea-
soaked entirely, absorbed in cerulean heartbreak.
she still kissed him good night, but even his tongue didn't dance with hers anymore.
said every time she kissed him, he tasted like goodbye.

and five years passed,
their bedroom still smells like vanilla,
but the pillow is still absorbed with liquid despair.
because the room is no longer theirs.
she still dances from time to time.
with his ex lover.
says it tastes like him.