She danced on steel joints,
a carnival of sparks rising from her heels.
Every movement rehearsed,
yet something wild trembled
beneath the varnish of perfection.
Somewhere else,
sweetness gathered in the dark,
skin bruised but glowing,
fermenting into a wine
that tasted of endings.
A heart broke quietly overhead.
Pressure, the way a river splits rock
after centuries of patience.
She looked on,
the woman who was neither
judge nor savior,
only the echo of desire itself,
her gaze steady,
her silence louder than the machine.
And so the halves coiled inward,
each turn echoing the last,
iron devouring marrow,
marrow burning to ash,
a spiral with no center,
a ladder without end.