A Silent Waltz

A poem, from the diary of a distressed mistress

By a candle-lit dinner and a blood-red rose, we dance. The surrounding darkness cloaks the pensive mood and it’s no surprise that you do not catch the tear drop rolling down my cheek. You swing me closer to the fire, to see how far I can go without getting burned. Our dying flames of passion, revived shortly, flaring up with a scorching heat as the eastern sun, and the redness of my flushed skin ignored.

Still, hell hath no fury as a woman scorned- as your woman scorned. I am aware of what is being done, aware but not wary. For the sole reason that the first time I got away with it, pouring wine over his chest, working well with my mother nature’s endowment of “woman”. With every stroke of his healthy mane, I smiled as the chains broke, unbound him from love, his true love, letting go of all he had laboured for, now willing to lavish all on me. But I saw nothing beyond this, so I left him in his stupor, drunken with irrational lust. He was blind, his vision blurred by the radiance of my youthful glowing skin.

As much as I resist, yes, I try not to meddle, but like litmus, my presence is a trial, testing the true colours of these proclaimed lovers who boast of their chemistry's strength. Usually, their passion, burning red, turns stone-cold blue.

Now, in our silent waltz, I can almost hear you say those three worn-out words. But you are wiser, you are being careful, as you tread around broken glass- from a wine glass tipped over, for you were angry that I resisted your forceful move. I know I take second place, I satisfy you when she is far away, but still you lie, insisting that you and I were meant to be. How could I possibly be your other half, when we are exactly the same? Non-superimposable mirror-images, we are exactly the same, replicas, trying to stay afloat on the same tiny boat, we cannot complement each other.

So I sink deeper into Lonely Sea, grasping for anyone to hold on to. I cling on to you, until my lifesaver comes to get me, breathe air into my shrivelling lungs, and bring sensitivity into this unconscious mind. But until then, I will wipe away this red drop emanating from my skin, a cut from the thorn of the rose you threw at me. As we twirl together, I’ll step to your anger, your every beating. I’ll stay quiet as you say your lady’s name instead, this is my silent waltz.

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Claim: Originally written by Nigerian Fiction Member 257 - OnePennyLess

Nigerian Fiction Title 112