watch the ghosts dance

I. the lights are bright and the night is young and filled with noises.
he is beautiful, unexplored, different. he doesn't do, all of all sudden he just is.
and what he is is fascinating. (and you're not sure in which way.)
his voice is soft and shaky when he speaks, and the words fit into him
way too perfectly, like they were made to be spilled from his lips.

II. his eyes are warm when they lock with yours, and his fingers slide
into the creases between yours a little too perfectly, like a lock and key.
and still he is fascinating magnificent beautiful, like the first time. he laughs,
and his breath tastes like hot coffee and the sound of 'forever' when he's the
one saying it. "forever", you say, but it doesn't sound nearly as pretty.

III. "nat", he says, his voice is scratchy and smells like sticky summer air, but it's
still far more beautiful than anything you could ever say. "yes?" "i can't sleep."
you sigh and shift on the matress until there's enough room for the two of you,
and even though the room is dark his smile is still bright and perfect when he
crawls in next to you, and his body is soft and strong and cold and hot at once.

IV. the night is cold and wet, with snowflakes pouncing against the windows and
the lingering cold extending its fingers through the open window. he is curled up
against you, his hot breath against your chest, and his fingers are threaded
together with yours. "nat?", he asks, "can i tell you a secret?" and before you
find the time to nod, he whispers, "i have a little girl in my head."

V. there is a pause. you both just sit there for a second, and it is now that you
notice the blank stare in his eyes, and all of all sudden his hand seems to be
just as cold and clammy as the air outside. he tightens his grip on your fingers,
as if he was scared you'd run away. "sometimes, she sings to me", he continues,
and before you can say anything your lips meet and he tastes like perfection
(if perfection and stale beer taste anything alike).

VI. his body is warm and firm and sweaty and perfect all over you, and it's almost
funny how perfectly he fits against you. "nat", he says, his voice caught somewhere
between a moan and a sigh, "nat, this is so perfect." and you nod and laugh,
and just because the way he says your name is nearly as perfect as this, you
kiss him, and the moment is almost perfect until you realize how much he tastes like sickness.

VII. it's only a matter of a few months until the two of you end up lying on the sofa,
him sprawled out against you, and this time your fingers aren't interlaced.
"nat, i'm sorry", he says, "i'm sorry", once again, and now there is no trace of
perfection left in his words, all there is left is a big hole, and you're not sure if
it's always been there. "you don't need to apologize", you say, because he doesn't.

that is the moment when you realize that she'd stopped singing.