I met you dressed in red, like a debutante,
with no chariots, no pumpkins and no step sisters,
my atrium scrapped like a bruised apple.
The next time we met, I dressed you in white,
tried to kiss you like the midnight was near, thinking
fairy tales were real but you had no step-mother,
and no fairy god mothers. I wished I could waltz.
We had our reunion, both dressed in black,
a huge ball-themed pity and my friends danced.
I wished I could dance to the beat of your fangs.
We met yesterday, when my atrium was calcified,
full of plaques - almost calloused
We both had no carriages, no balls – I felt
numbness at our last reunion.
We meet each day; I wave like leaves in a gentle wind,
Shuffle like a dancer on throw back Thursday, to the familiar.
Glossary dolor: sorrow