Run a finger to encircle,
delicate amber waif, edge of a blade of grass.
Find the boarded well
and the chamber utterly without doors.
Mad ghost under a furious moon,
our centaurs’ island kingdom falls,
buried in hours.
Why not dance once again a final dance,
play once again on the ends of our nerves?
Posted for G-Man's Friday Flash 55 Fiction
(This time, title is not included in the word count, because I'm arbitrary like that.)
In Case You're Wondering Dep't: Title is derived from the occupation of the original donor of the offstage kiss in question.
Image: Education of Achilles, by Eugène Delacroix 2nd third of 19th century, oil on canvas
Eugène Delacroix [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons