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.
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