by Mark

They danced, not knowing
All eyes gazed upon them
forming jam bubbles
spread evenly across.
Moveing as a cell
not ready for mitosis.
Swimming across the rug
sprinkling small cuts
as they sweep their feet.
He moves forward, she back
She forward,he back.
It was a play to behold
the others in box seats
watching an orchestra play precisely
without a conductor,
wishing their partners
would play such a
lovely game.

Except one. Who cared not
the value of their steps
but the stiffness in their stare
shaped with shards of splinters
spoiling their fluid feet
with fondantless faces.
Faces which done this
times before,
countless memories
of  scoville motions.
Yet, now just movements.