Valse Melancolique

I was
waltzing with razors
on a precipice
when
I found you
splayed across
a mirror,
bulletholes for eyes—

Light struck the glass at the pivotal point.

Nine skeleton keys
loomed in your doorway;
one struck me in the
solar plexus but I kept
sashaying across a blade
to your fingertip
when I tripped and hurtled
through a crevice in the
floorboards—

Laughter of scissors.

Emerging,
I implored the pendulum
for an answer
but it only echoed
that I should have
looked in the
mirror.