She stood She stood there immobile, frozen, still. No feelings dwelt there; lifeless chill. Her ice-clad heart, stuck in her breast. Her swollen center, hollow ice-chest. A pirouette, her arms poised, fourth position, caught in pose, dancing in full transition. Her feet, left in front of right, toes pointed out, snug-fit slippers, her frosted lips caught, in mid-shout. He saw her standing, still-life, statuesque beauty; to thaw her heart became his heart's duty. Her beat-less heart, her bosom un-throbbed; he touched her cheek, felt her woeful sob. The dancer's emotions, her body portrays, thawing feelings, her hurt displays. He grasped her hands, felt ice melts, frosted cheeks, now rosy welts. His gentle smile, manly grasp on her hip, warm man-hands, with tender grip. Her bosom now, moving, heaving slight, her smile now thawing, face now bright. Muscles moving, graceful flexion, they smoothly move in one direction. ...
"Always be a poet, even in prose." ~ Charles Baudelaire