Last Dance

I hear a voice.

Sitting on a bench,

Under the lonely tree

Trying to listen

the deafening echoes

of my mind.

I feel the whisper

caressing my sunburnt forehead.

With my roads going downhill

and my legs failing to rise,

I wait for the dark

clouds to clear away.

I sip the cold whiskey,

hoping to drain my memoirs.

Thinking about the cold sheets

and her warm legs. The reminiscence

of her betrayal cuts through

every cell in mine.

I search for her smile: a solace,

a beacon for my lost mind,

Her soft hair brushing my

lipstick stained cheek.

I look up the sky to

match my emptiness.

I think of a dream, where

her lips were pressed to mine;

My fingers traced her contours;

My face was buried in her valleys. 

I dream the moment when

we were naked under the Tuscan sun.

I lose my ground

drowning in an abyss of solitude.

I remember her eyes, which

once sparkled, but now shadowed.

An eclipse of debauchery

obscuring our lives.

I sensed my arms holding

her satin draped waist and

a cold machete. And, she

murmured ‘how about a last dance?’

With her breath in my bosom

I sang our epitaph!