I’d rather lose at love than calcify.
I am murdered; I am mummified,
but even murdered mummies walk.
Locked limbs belie hopeful momentum.

I lumber.
Oh how I ever only lumber.
New Yorkers stride; Parisians promenade.
I have been both and felt out and under-paced.

But you, exuberant dancing
in heels percussing offbeats of organs bound and bandaged
are bound to pin frayed edges of bandage to the ground.

Our errant steps are prelude to unfamiliar candor.
Our facades take long to fabricate but little to unravel.