It is so intricate, this dance we do for
Questing for utopia found
in another person.
Our match; our other half.
Our fathers chased our mothers,
wooing them. Pursuing their queen with
voracity, intent, and purpose.
courting is dead. If the queen
doesn’t run, another queen will catch
her beloved’s eye.
She must be fascinating; she must be
mysterious; she must feign disinterest
and walk the tightrope between apathy
and inquiry, wondering if her bait is effective.
Plastic crowns require no investment, no effort.
He is satiated for minutes and wonders why.
Without intimacy, without choice, we make each other
bleed. We burn in this dance.
I am my own match. I am king and queen
of my kingdom. I am not a prize to be won, nor
a peacock spreading her feathers to entice
Walk beside me, unpainted, no cloak
to distort my essence.
Harmony cannot be found
without focus, dissonance only
fixed with practice.
My song still plays