All of the truly eloquent words have been taken. There is nothing new under the sun. Different pen, different lover, different handwriting even, but nothing is ever new. Always used. This pen was used to write letters to another- this script used to impress not just You:
A lover, always a hand-me-down; passed from woman to woman, and maybe its your fate to be, too. Used and beaten and yanked around on a string.
I will never understand how you can put up with such a creature. How you can love such a devil.
But I know she does something to you. I know she ignites your desire; your lust. How she teases and tempts; submits and makes you feel like a man.
But its only a feeling. A feeling which will quickly fade.
When you're older, but never wiser, and her hips are destroyed from her dancing days, and she can no longer please you (what good is she without that?), you'll wish you had traded your childish wants for better things.
You made a mistake thinking she could make you happier now, than I ever could have in the future.

I'm caught in her rhythmic trance
watch her bones adjust to the somber tones
her faint frame, crosses and cranes
falling silent
crawling saint
drawing transit
satanic sales
   ***
   soul
   song
she is the rightful wrong

We dance* for laughter,
We dance for tears,
We dance for madness,
We dance for fears,
We dance for hope,
We dance for screams,

We are the dancers,
We create the dreams!

She
points her
toes in the shoe
until the crease scars.
She won't fall until the script
says to do so.
Breathe.
Pause.
Now
Fall.

The
doll models
the Pas De Quatre
buried within act two.
Toes fall and up and jump
and flow.

She
recites the
moves in a secret
Diary of Dance:Swan Lake.
Breathe.
Pause.
Now
Fall.
Breathe.
Get up.
Smile.
Bow.
Now
cry.