One…two...three.
Can there ever be enough waltzes?
Couples holding tight to one another’s rhythms.
At breakfast, in the bathroom, in the bed.
Rhythms, sometimes cold and brutal,
Danced to the music of whatever
Masquerades as love.
Time and practice
Makes the dance a dance.
They glide and turn,
Effortlessly,
Stumbling into the grave.
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