The Velvet Memory

She slipped through candlelight as though it parted for her,

her dress the shade of dark wine.

I was young, and certain then

that the shadows leaned close only for me.

The ballroom turned and turned,

faces running together,

but she did not move.

She might have been painted there,

watching, waiting.

Her laugh caught me off guard.

It climbed into the rafters and seemed to stay,

weaving itself through my thoughts

until I could think of nothing else.

Did she say something?

I try to remember her lips forming words,

but the sound is gone.

All I have is the memory of that laugh,

and then the break in memory.

Another man’s hand rested at her waist.

I stood against the pillar and could not move.

The orchestra swelled, or maybe it was only my heart,

and the chandelier began to sway.

Shadows crawled across the gilded walls

while she drifted further away.

Still, what will not leave me is this:

before she turned from me, she looked back.

Her eyes were black enough to swallow

every bit of light, and every reason I had left.

Did she smile? Did she cry?

Did she know what she was doing to me?

Decades have passed,

but I feel her hand at my sleeve,

on my shoulder,

a touch that does not fade.

They said she drowned that night,

pulled from the pond in her dark gown,

the fabric spread around her like wings.

I never believed it.

The truth is simpler, and far worse.

She is still here.

She waits, she chooses,

and she breaks what she takes.

And when I dream, she finds me.

Always.

Her laughter lingers long after I wake,

and I know I still belong

to that waltz.