He takes off the glasses, the mask that fails him.
His two blue eyes mock hers.
He is a smiling imp in black.
He moves closer. The fiddler plays a reel.
His lips are like smoked sugar, his tongue an instrument,
his stubble a burnt field.
She is dying.
She opens her eyes. His are closed, lashes relaxed.
She snaps every line, every scar in close-up.
His black hair reveals paler roots.
Her hands are on his neck; the skin is soft.
She closes her eyes again.
They are stealing each other
for a moment.
He is giving her something to keep
but she is just dying, dying.
(First published in WordThirst)