Dying Lover

The Theatre And Its Trouble beckoned forth with lazy, gentle naked steps in the vast empty space where dust had snowed decades of discontent, and her fingers, like cracked marble caressed the broken baroque that bruised the velvet molding halls and sided the corners of it all, and without a mortal’s hesitance she slithered into song—her neck folded back and lips slightly parted, the notes were skipping steps on the keyboard of a broken piano—faintly at first then with bouncing brute force…the arch of her left foot bridged over the gleaming remains of Galilean binoculars…

 

She studied the daphne blue, the old-money gold, pastel pink and the Xanadu on the ceiling tile, with longing and denial she thrust a finger in her dry cunt and moaned and droned as the vermin in the place, scurried in great torment, thighs trembling and toes curling in the tattered carpet. The story was old, she was told, the amatory threshold, bold and cold and nevertheless she longs for betrayal’s echo in an unrepentant ripping of her dress.

 

”Speak to me, my dying lover,” she muttered with a fading magenta in her lips. Reaching for her hair, she began to cackle at the thought of kneeling bloody in despair. Delphic was the dire dread, daedal drunkenness whose fierce breath was self-imposed, and her eyes were white as the ivory cracking at the blows; the years had ears and eyes to see, to ensure the end was near but the roses from the crowd never did appear.

 

And with shaking shrieks that pierced through layers of the infernal and then the celestial, she tore her clothes from her body and screamed my name in quaking pain…

 

”Why have you forsaken me?” she whispered through the bitten blood in her mouth.

 

”Your audience was never here to go way, but I, your goddesservant, I am forever here to stay.”

 

∞