Callous

She lays in bed, tapping away messages to her former lover.

Does she want this?
Is she even able to deliver a rational and well weighed thought?

"Wait on My doorstep with your dancing shoes", spilled from her calloused fingertips.

Callouses he encouraged.

 

When a patch of mud the size of a little city surrounded them, she could only feel worry.

Seeking refuge from the rain, they waltzed in a dingy basement, they swayed awkwardly.

 

All questions and lack of emotion makes Ernestine a sad, sad, sad, sad being.

"Leave your shoes at the door..", she said.

No mud, no blood, no love to remind her in the morning.