Dance of Disassembly



By: Tristan Deeley
We dance to the music no-one hears—the beats of our hearts, the breaths of our lungs, the caresses of our minds. No matter. Music of the mouth is unnatural and discordant; instruments are not as perfect as we are.
I take your hand in mine, then take you all, from the shoulder onwards. When you twirl, the simple twist lends me your other arm, like soft clay being taken apart.
Armless, harmless, you spin to the floor, legs spread wide for me. A gentle tug, the ones you like, which elicit purrs from your porcelain throat, and I have them, too. 
The torso is much harder. Nothing to hold and pull, at least not without hurting you. I run a fingernail gently across your neck, and that does the trick. You fall apart.
You roll away now, as I pick up your body and follow. You’ve gone far ahead. Ahead; I chuckle throatily at the thought. I am so tired. Only the sane sleep.
I catch your head, the backs of my fingers resting on your delicate cheek. You cannot leave yet. Not until I am done. Not until we finish our dance. I smile softly into your eyes, your cold glare sending arrows up at me. You hadn’t thought I would take it this far.
I ponder your eyes. Deep brown, like chocolate. Wild, though. Untameable, untakeable. I look at my full arms. There is no room, anyway. I would not want to break them. They look beautiful in your sockets, and I must leave something. A single tear runs down your snowy face, falling to the marble ground. But I am still hungry. Not my mouth, nor my stomach, but my soul.
With a final kiss, I take your lips, and I tuck them into my breast-pocket. For later.
 
Tristan Deeley is 17 and lives in Queensland, Australia.