the forgotten dance.

she dances with the wind as it blows through the minds of many, hers is shattered mirrors upon glass ceilings. she moved towns so she could change her name, put on a new face, but still ended up like the brothel 42nd street dancing queen. i remember my jealous bruise peeling off the edges, men that quarrel for such extreme sacral-ness, there is lust in the blood orange. there is deep black in the memory of her ritual, how it haunts her dreams and caves in many blank hearts. heart? what is in the bottom of pits? can you grow them in seeds of sewn stomach? hearts don't grow on cement sidewalks, like the oak trees do. hearts don't grow black. the pits are fertile with respiration, she breathes new life, Ahh. let us dance until the memory goes black.