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a poem by Ben Adams

last waltz

thoughts drag out
like the final slow waltz played
through an empty dance hall
over punch bowls & scattered plates
half-drunk bottles of cheap red,
scuff marks on the polished floor

and lingering by the big doors
eyes searching
for someone she expected to see
there is only the soft moon
through high windows
above the street outside,

the dull beat of blood pumping through
a muscle that remembers

and the sharp taste of wine
left open
far too long.

© by Ben Adams
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #26 ~ April 2013