Leftovers

And so the process of living starts, as soon as the lights come on and the music starts the game begins.
The stage is set and the writer’s job is over now over to the iconic act of playing begins. That’s my mirror hanging like a corpse from the ceiling. But that’s fine right, because the eyes can’t see further than the sound of the symphony. She takes the floor, eyes on you, each one of us. Her hair has a life of its own it cascades like a monsoon fed waterfall, eyes locked on her, feelings getting stronger, magnetic vibrations echo through the room. Slowly, very tepid now, the word on everyone’s lips is “now’, but she starts moving, one hand like a wisp of a feline shadow, it travels across from her face to her nude waist, then the other hand, slowly very poised and very slowly both her hands move too reveal her face, the piano prelude starts and the entire orchestra picks up tempo and she moves her right feet, a highly pronounced step, her entire body follows suit. Like a whisper, she tortures the watchers. The importance of foreplay was never so divine. The mirrors and her whispering body accentuate the tears in the eyes of the director. He stands in the upper room, with shivers running down the entire length of his body. The woman moves like a surreal painting come to life. Her existence seems to be just this, whispering through her body the secrets, the secrets that she hides the secrets that she lies, the secret that she hopes will die. Her naked body seems clothed in an aura of sensitivity. Her limbs move, no they whisper, a tale of longing. Her hands play with her only desire, the atmosphere. Between the devil and the deep sea she seems like a gulp of last air a mouthful of sweetish poison.