Tango.

Eyes to the sky, mind in the ground.

Not knowing why isn't the case.

Leaping towards the floor, he carries himself to the pews,

genetics speak louder then a blood type for him, they leak out clues.

The basis of his muse is comfort, 

yet why won't his heart eat the blood that was designated for him.

Missteps are in his nature, 

then why does the trip make him fall?

Shaking like california plates, he whispers to his soul

" Don't test the handling,"

and gracefully moves his feet towards the landing strip.

 She is as blue as a vain, that keeps her feet moving in his direction

moving is easy, when your hearts on empty.

Head bopping like a Pez dispenser, she agrees to show him her world.

spinning around in his grasp, she knows the practice that he put in,

So her eyes grab his and gently rotates her head back.

He steps on her feet, every turn,

 she knows the risk, 

but carries the pain.

As her feet turn dark blue as the vain, that carried her feet in his direction, they break. 

His brown hair covers his fear,  

Leaving her questioning their dance.

Practice is key, for him. 

Some dances are danced alone, so she steps aside as he moves his feet over her skin and bones.

one step, two, tango.

-M