Using music as a bandage, it wraps around my wrists and mind. It eases the troublesome tirade of a fickle onslaught.
At the ball. There's an incredibly high ceiling, it holds intricate patterns and seemingly impossible artwork. Blood, sweat and tears. With a firm grip, a fantastic chandelier is poised right over the centre of the room, the Architect really wanted to get that part alone right. The floor is marble, of course. It it a mix of triangular perfection, in shades of ecru, peru and with a delicate lining of russet. The light seems to come from everywhere, but the room still remains dim. At the right there is a spiralling grand staircase. To the left the platform for the band. A piano adorns the space greedily, but as it casts out such wonderful sound the other instruments play nicely. The tables have fabulous centrepieces, deep rouge roses, mixed with their innocently white counterpart. There are diamonds on the petals and it's so beautiful because no weight hangs heavy on them. Wink in the candlelight. The chairs are plush, with velvet smooth covers. The satin is so soft on the table surface. Next to cutlery that's polished perfection, sharp and accurately placed. Name cards were done individually, the writing suits the theme. The staff, know when to appear and when to disappear back into the walls. Discretion is key.
A hand takes you and spins you onto the floor. Though it is dizzy for a second or so, the room stops twirling. A slow dance, where hands fit on waists and snugly into a partner's free hand. One hand up high, and placing it perfectly there means eyes will definitely meet. Moving to a beat, different from the one strummed in the left. Hearts adjust to a rhythm and become lost. If it all stopped now there would be a confusion. Rested heads on shoulders. The only smell is a faint perfume, so familiar. Slow movements. Gentle. We were dancing to keep breathing.
"You don't need me, but you won't leave me."
Once again, let's take a moment to clear out the paper from our desks. Spring cleaning. Flower pruning. I guess you were going to make me do this all along. All it would have taken was the truth. No one says that out aloud anymore, for pity's sake. We should be so lucky. Stop pretending. You were no parachute after all. Terrible, falling, down. Watered down versions of the truth.
Looking up to that highly placed hand, sort of ready to say the words.
No one is there. Cruel dream.