No one should have
to listen for the tone.
The never-stoppin'
virtuosity of walking
out for good. The taking
the takes with you,
the familiar passage
hidden within the solo.
Perhaps, like music, you
loved him. Maybe
his pockets held keys
and his shadow lingered
on when he talked about how
things were gonna be
better. Or perhaps, even
he is somebody else's.
Not a free man. And you
love him only when
he's as warm as the rum
in your glass. You love
him that much. And wasn't
he gonna be the dancer
who stepped through
the lies and the swearing
of over and over again to not
this time. Not again, baby.
And you listened. Now,
he's the one you are looking
for, the one who whistles
rumors around the corner,
keeping all his women happy.
He is the one who make you
turn around. His is a body
that finds the stunning cadenza,
the crackling sound, the irredeemable
sin present in music. Everywhere.
His body should have been
something more. But, now,
not even your hand can follow
where the dark warmth meets.
His brutal voice connects
inside you and you set down
your drink. You agree to triads
together. If only his wife knew
what not to know. And if only
love were there and whatever
was there to look for in his
music? Too many dances end.
One night after a show, you
had a pure moment of living
for just one brief flash,
you were afraid. |
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts