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Elle is late again
her dinners getting cold.
Eggplant lasagna, its her favorite
and tiramisu to top.
A last ditch effort to make amends
for the day's dark events.
It wasn't my fault.
I didn't think her dog was going to chase the ball
it landed in the middle of the street,
but then, Elle caught the ball right?...
not the beagle... it wasn't my fault.
Nine o'clock, no call yet
she knows i hate when she's late
spending all of her time dancing
its like an obsession.
Rhythmic bossa nova,
the classic lines and shadows of adagio.
I can picture her silky slender frame,
mysterious dark curls, young and vibrant.
She turns to glance, shooting a twinkle my way
as she vibes to the fires of flamenco.
...Hmmmm no phone call...
one can only sit here for so long
before imaginations take hold
and sometimes it's grasp isn't strong enough;
slipping into black thoughts, day-mares.
It wasn't my fault...
I recall her laying there
muttering something under her breath,
as if speaking to herself
but what?...i ponder. I think i'll call the studio.
her pasta is starting to get moldy and
things here have been quiet, too quiet
... why am I shaking