Timestep
They say that a tango is a walking argument. You pull your partner across the floor; toss them around a little. Make them beg a bit for your touch.
Life only pretends to be a tango.
He's getting more comfortable in his skin now. He meets my eyes when I talk to him, and almost looks through them, making me just another insignificant issue.
I don't like domination. Not unless I hold the whip.
But the older I get, the more I realize the futility of control. Just being with him forces me to understand that neither of us holds the power.
Makes me sort of sick.
Why? Because I can't pique his interest. Can't get a connection with him. Because he won't sink down to my level.
Come on, blondie. Crawl with the cockroaches. Crawl on my belly. Pull my hair.
What the fuck am I asking for?
I think I know.
His breath on the back of my neck. His tongue in my mouth. The heat of a passion so real and fine, burning though me like a holy fire.
It's been so long since I felt something cleanse my soul. I'm almost ready to get down on my knees for it. I'm weak, for the first time in my life, and it scares me as it enthralls me.
But he does not notice me, in his new confidence. And I cannot explain the new weakness within me.
I want this dance; what shall it be? A violent tango? A painful reverie.
I have burned many a relationship beyond recognition in my time. Left bleeding, bruised souls to liter their refuse across my heart. With my own illusions, I have fooled myself into ignorance in this life.
Yet no one ignores the tango.
But life is not a tango.
He may save me, as I may save him. Perhaps life is a waiting game. We shall see.