La Tarantella

By Trey Acosta

We waltzed around the smoldering pit until the last embers zipped upwards. You twirled and said you wanted another dance, twisting my arms, tangling into me, interlocking our limbs, soldering together. I dipped you right before taking the flashlight out of my pocket. Tiny sparkles responded to the high-powered ultraviolet beam cast into the umbrage, wood and her shadow. I grasped your hand and brambled forward through briar, brush, and branches; we stumbled to the ancient tree where a duet of spiders watched us dance through octancular amethyst. We weaved as vines, our fingers laced creepers, back to the campsite.

We extinguished the fire before withdrawing into the freezing tent. Blazing venom spat from our mouths. Rattling teeth and bones played a dirge. Though metronomes in sync, I shimmied in solo, forcing you to do the same. When we stopped the dance, the warmth between us ceased to spark, never to kindle again. A pair of thermal ghosts promenading into cold dark, our fire died in the middle of nowhere, our body heat lost in the unknown forest.