By Nicholas Foreman
The timbre floors echo the sound of your nostalgic chest as it’s close to mine.
You stare at my eyes through the mirrors on the walls.
Your hand loses its grip on my shoulder as if to wave goodbye.
I said I’d meet you at the hall but this tempo says I didn’t.
You’re skin is cold the warmth has gone your lips have hidden.
I can feel your twisted posture through your new torn dress.
This heart of mine has returned to my body as the air creeps between us,
Forgive me darling but how do we slow dance when I have burning lips?