Excuse me, darling, in advance
for the slow, macabre dance
I may one day lead you into.
Holding you too tight for comfort
and whispering endearments,
if I should call you by another’s name,
a lover’s perhaps, from years ago,
don’t be startled. It’s just a slip
of the moonlight.
And when the music grows louder
and the dance goes faster,
and losing my balance, I stumble,
words spinning off in all directions,
don’t be embarrassed. It’s just a slip
of the darkness.
For when the blizzard rages
and snow settles on words,
their sense becomes frozen.
Language hallucinates. Listen,
that’s me out there,
howling at the Scrabble board.
Should I fail to recognize you,
curse, complain, step on your toes,
forgive me, I didn’t mean to.
For this is a fine romance,
despite the slow, macabre dance
I may one day lead you into.