As usual, he was slightly elevated.
They had their roles, the boy on stage right
the ******* the beer-stained linoleum
beneath the red and blue strobes.
He, unconsciously dancing.
She, dancing self-consciously.
The boy sets his brow and takes his solo
masterfully, delicately, jauntily.
His secret is he makes it up every time
Her secret is that she already knows
the cartography of the next sixteen bars
as if it were her fingers on the strings-
that's the way it always is.
After five years, what could you expect?
The room cries out his name.
The girl quietly damns him.
Resents him for doing everything so
******* perfectly- his work, his genius,
and his worst offense of all:
having loved her harder
than anyone else will
ever be able to.