Watch me twirling in front of you like that girl you can't forget and hear me whisper your name while she dances in front of you. God damn the words that creep into your ears and tell you that our dance isn't right. This is the Pachanga and only Hell is left to pay when we're done.
Pass me my wine and remind me again why we couldn't leave on time? Never mind that noise. Instead tell me your silly jokes and put hickies on my neck while we talk about him and his impotent hands that hung limply at his side when you left him. Oh and remember the part about where he cried and fell onto his knees in the rain.
Feet striking the floor and arms flailing about like we're dancing for our lives. And we are dancing for our lives. Dancing in front of the critics who arm their acerbic words with poisoned compliments and backhanded retorts. Yet still we dance.
What if I sing too? Would you like that?
She left because you drank too much and he cried to much so you had to leave him behind. We're alone but we're alone together so who the fuck cares? Not me. I'm dancing too quickly to be seen. My legs are a blur and my voice is like wine overflowing from the cup the waiter stopped paying attention to in the third row. I am a warbling bird crying out for your love but you're too busy fucking in the balcony to notice me.
Silence comes over us but we don't stop dancing. The band has left. They died long ago but still we spin about each other hoarsely making our own songs out of bastardized Madonna lyrics and St. Augustine's prayers. I don't want to die but spinning about you with the dress flying high over my head I can't remember ever feeling less alive then I do now.