It scares me to death when he puts his arm though mine and we walk into the soiree.
I hold my breath because I’m constantly waiting for the reverie to shatter.
For Cinderella too had her midnight, so shall I in this melancholic story .
I steal a glance at him while walking through the crowd, his ethereal fingers laced through mine.
The brown in his eyes stabs my soul a million times.
I am so in love with him, it breaks me to pieces and I fall apart in a clatter.
He holds me by the waist before even an inch of me caresses the marbled floor.
He knows every movement of my every muscle, every molecule of my breath, every beat of my cracked heart.
He recognizes the look in my eyes, his eyes reading the parchment of unspoken words in my core.
I can sense the gold of his aura drawing in the darkness of mine, turning to an odious grey.
Because that is what we are: mud, and ashes, and rotting vile corpses left unburied in a gruesome fray.
I’m an ignominy, a misfit to the incomprehensible mess his world calls art .
His lips part to say the words I know will melt my fire, sway my conscience for sure.
I refuse to be his hamartia anymore.
I step away from him, every inch of distance a ray of relief, a knife in my heart, a pin in my eye.
“Never let me go,” I whisper as a last goodbye.