Author’s Note:

Today a friend posted this song, I Don’t Think About You Anymore, But I Don’t Think About You Anyless by Hungry Ghosts, on her Facebook page. I was drawn to the simplicity of the tune, the accordion, and the absolute melancholy of the piece.

So I decided to play a bit and write something poetically melancholic. Seems like I need to get back to writing a little fiction.

Start the song and wait for the accordion to begin playing. Enjoy it for a bit and then read the poem out loud, of course, with a heavy heart. Enjoy.

Thank you, Christine for the fun!



At the table a long thin taper set askew in an empty bottle
illuminates what the slight moon cannot. Under stars beneath

tree’s umbrella music from accordion and violin swirl around
her head. Veiled in melancholy’s shroud she gazes at fireflies

fluttering about her adding their glow to the deep night’s sorrow.
The slide of feet tangled in tango scrape ever so gently in lover’s

embrace, one in which she will never again partake. If she listens,
ignoring the music, the dance, she can hear the river, the thief,

curdled with his blood. She drinks the last drop of the deep red wine
as she has each night, every night since he left. Placing coins on

the checkered cloth, she rises in time to the beat, not of the tango,
but her heart yearning for his touch. Stepping through the dancers,

breaking their hold, she crosses into the calling night. Letting the
shawl fall from her shoulders, then her hips, finally onto the ground,

cold rises from the rushing waters to caress her bare arms,
a reminder she will never again be warm. Sure in her steps, steps

taken each night in dream, she moves to the edge of the river near
the willow bent in shame unable to help. Removing first one, then

the other, slippers worn on her wedding day, she places her bare
feet on rocks smoothed from the flow, slick from his blood. One step

and then another, tangoing in whispered sighs with the whelm. Deeper
and deeper, her skirt catches the fluid brimming, pulling down with

grace. Over and around she moves to the now distant tango waiting,
watching for his hand. And in a breath, a gulp grasping at air, she

opens her eyes to the new day’s dawn. Pulling her feet from the bed,
she waltzes into white satin slippers ready for another day.

2 thoughts on “Tango

  1. Beautiful, the words and the music seems to flow well for me.

    The (crushendo {sp}) was at the point where she steps into the water.

    Wow. Tingling.


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