The loneliest number

She dances,
the slow movement glowing
underneath the tragic waste of skin
of someone born to hold her own regretfull lonely arms
lusting desire for ethereal long lost lovers.

She dances.

The loneliest number.

Middle age worn lipstick
swirling hips
waving goodbye.

She dances.

Nothing speaks of regret
like the waking body
of a desperate woman.