She's always looking past the glass,
into the vacant skies
brimmed with thunder clouds.
So feverish for beauty she can't avow,
and sick with all the lies.

He's never palpable,
a ghost at the table
poisoning his lovers and their wine.
Slithering up the puppet strings,
like a snake on a vine.

She spends days in the grim,
dancing in ballet shoes
on top of broken boards...
For him.