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Courtship

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I see myself dancing a waltz I have never seen before with I man I have yet to meet, although I believe him to be a god. His skin is icy and snow white, his hair is that of black and mortal wires. His eyes, ah his eyes, are that of an unforgiving but gentle sea. It crashes and breaks and cries. His face, however, is yet to be explained.

He wears a mask that matches his pure white suite, lucid and transparent, he hides his face with the faces of others through a glass screen. He changes his name frequently. Every time he throws me to the floor, or strangles me on the wall, or even stabs me in the chest and stomach, I get up to open my broken and weary eyes to see the mask has changed as well as his name.

Every time I believe him to be another, so I get up, with blood and dirt on my suit, glass in my eyes, and a rotting and dying heart on my sleeve, and dace. I dance to forget. I dance to look forward. I dance to try and smile, to fool myself that the next day, month, year or century has anything different than the one before it did.

Will tomorrow bring the same misery as the one before it did? Will it turn to tradition? Will my only hope be a deviant? A nonconformist in a sea of sheep that will bring anything, if anything, at all? Or should they even bring something. Will their rebellion be that of absence? A fine time of tranquility and apathy to vacation to from the daily toils of tears and pity?

It seems ideal, a pause in time from the heart wrenching sadness that can only be described as consumption. But to plant a seed of happiness, only to watch it sprout and be beaten by a harsh and unforgiving sun is a sight I'd rather not experience.

It is better to have never loved than to have loved and lost, for when the knife of loss pierces the heart, the memories of happiness and love only drive it deeper.



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