The cabaret wasn't suitable for the ballroom dancing he was looking for.
There were girls in fishnet stalkings and rainbow makeup flaunting
themselves--
writhing like worms under a summer sun--
to anyone that could stomach the intoxicated gyrating of gleaming bare flesh
and bones.
They spoke in blasphemy and wagged their tongues like dogs in heat.
The stench of the sweat and the cigarettes and the alcohol curved up wards
through his nostrils and poisoned his brain to kill off his thoughts.
He was battling the bitter vile churning within his gut,
preparing himself for his leave from this untitled Hell.

But there she was,
catching his colourless eyes with a smile painted in red--
a shadow slithering between the provocative snakes and their venomous forked
tongues as they flicked them out
in vain attempts to snare the attention they craved.

With pointed features and eyes that should have belonged to the Devil,
she hooked her lure into his lip and reeled him in closer.
Closer.
He was captivated by her fluid walk and the way she seemed so confident
despite those unmoving lips.

A hand on the back of his neck, fingers winding into the curl of his
coffee-coloured hair,
and she'd take the other in her own,
stitching their fingers together over the confusion he bled.
She was driving him up the wall with those inaudible offerings and the way
she seemed so sweet
in a Heaven only fit for prostitutes.

When she finally let her tongue slip
she drowned him in words he'd been waiting so long to hear.
She strung together poetic things and showed him a new side to euphoria.
He was contorted at her feet by the time the song had played out.

The way she pointed her toes brought him to his knees.
He was drooling on the stage and yet she managed to keep her footing
throughout the mesmeric display.
The glamourous ballet was almost too much for him to handle.

She stroked his tongue so well.
--Put away your art and toss that jar of ink back down your throat, love.
We'll show them a new trend in a promenade fit only for us.

How could he refuse with a mouth like that?

Their tongues danced across the wax on the floor so effortlessly.
It was making him sick--
he needed another drink.
Another shot of black to vomit across the page.

She smeared it across the white in arcs that shamed rainbows.

The passion was only fit for a bedroom
and yet they displayed their cavorting publicly
and made even strippers look away.
She didn't think he could handle it but he was proving to have more blood
than should be bled.

She painted pictures with it in the white that came up when his eyes rolled
back.

--How can I refuse, with a mouth like that?
--I never said you could, my murderous Romeo-- you're hearing voices in your
head.
--My mind is an open canvas.
--And I'm smearing a frown across the face of the Mona Lisa in an ugly shade
of red.

Her poetry shattered his motor skills and he was left breathless on the
floor,
those expensive heels tearing holes in his skin.
She didn't stay long enough for him to breathe again.

She left him there to wither away.
She'd return before the last petal fell and they'd scrawl out an ending to
the fairy-tale.

Happily ever afters, if you believe in such things.
 
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