Queue for a dance with
ink upon your wrist,
paper wrapped tight and
a waiting kiss.
Princes march to their kingdom come, on
their checkerboard, light board,
dance floor hum.
Princesses in timely masks
of nightmarish dreams
hide their real selves in
plain sight, with
handlebar hair
cut into wigs,
only hiding scalps of shame.

In head, in thought, I spoke 26 words,
7 points of punctuation and 6
saintly verbs:
*You left.
a dance too short,
touch of the ***,
another ***** for the group,
feel of the ***,
smile and forget,
forget she ever asked.