Because maybe fortunes aren't meant to be known.

Dedicated to the dancer in my life, and the future I hope she avoids.

She was a dancer,
by trade and right,
slim and slight
with the effort of her art,
graceful and lithe
yet hard as rock
to the touch;

He was quick,
subtle and light
by his conversational
twang, intellect skimming
under eyes soft
and comforting as
melted butter;

It was no romance,
no candle or candy
to claim, no fate,
nor the roses and wine,
merely the lack of distaste,
the comfort of
each other in the
gradual downfall of life;

Her bones twisted,
grew frail, brittle,
muscles stringy with
use, yet still
unyielding as steel,
her demeanor following
suit into bitter acceptance;

His wit grew sluggish,
warped by time, age,
mind filled up to,
and past, the point
of breaking,
so he knew not his
own deterioration;

It was no romance,
no sweet kisses or
gentle touch,
nor nights out
to enjoy life with
each other,
merely a shared plot
and stone under
which to lie.