You never did, you did not have to drape a tutu.
Toccata of my rhythm chased the terpsichore
of your desires, collating on our stage the sequence
of sing-song sessions. Forms solder when an endless
supply of emotional steam fuels them, otherwise fracking
signs in. The arrogance of our missteps didn’t keep pace
with this ritardando. We had our own tempo.
Irked the raiment of reason chose to unclothe us.
The destiny of dishabilles requires no repetition.