His head is between his knees and he’s slowly rocking back and forth and muttering about what he’s worth- I get the feeling he thinks that isn’t much and I’m proven right when he tenses at my touch and he’s ready for a fight and his eyes shut and his face is looking up and it’s impossibly tight.
He’s a poor boy and he needs to see the light.
So we dance around the ballroom in my head and I try to make him wish he wasn’t dead and I wish we could both fly but I’m still here on the ground and he’s nowhere to be found and maybe that’s why he’s so lost and confused and white and dark. He is a ghost and he is everything I’m missing most and right now I’m wondering if love was worth the cost.
The ballroom in my head breathes around us as I try to feel like I can again trust; and the floor flashes red and amber and rust and suddenly blue. It feels like the passion and the memory of you. It’s a warning and an invitation and maybe an initiation, but the living don’t fly like you do and the dead can’t glide as I do, so for now we must be content to dance in my head.
Maybe, one day, the kiss will be real.