(she calls it the burning game)
It involves lipstick stains pressed on white collars, teeth marks hidden behind camisoles, and little touches that recoil from an afterglow. It exists in corners of the eye and corridors of darkness, always a ghost and never a tangible thing. Traces remain, but they're eviscerated once she catches a flash of his obsidian eyes, filtered lenses.
(she calls it a spark, but it's not)
In trepidation, they circle each other, changing the dance to tango, foxtrot, however they see fit, always to the ambiance of others. They glance at each other with quirked lips and off-hand comments, small talk, because they have nothing to say to each other, and neither of them is on a quest to find the beast that lies beneath the beauty. No, that reveals itself in clandestine darkness, under the sheets, and crescent shaped marks that dig in just enough to last a day. At times they bow and curtsey, neatly sidestepping personal remarks, and it continues, this amorphous tryst, pushing and pulling; but it equates to a carousel going nowhere.
(she watches the camera roll, watches him, and feigns a smile, one that he returns meaninglessly)
Inhaling lavender, he guides her into a perfect circle. Her velvet dress shimmers against his black tuxedo, and they play their parts of lovers well. And if nothing's at stake, then she aims for a kiss, catching him by surprise. Like vines, they intertwine, tighter and tighter until she feels his pulse racing, until she knows she's drowning, and if she opens her eyes now, she knows that he'll be startled to realize that ragdolls can be just as sweet.
(she draws away just as she hears the director say, okay, that's a wrap)
It's only a commercial, lasting for a few seconds. And yet she made the mistake of believing the illusion to be real.
(& she is left to wither in smoke. always)