That's when I told you

Shadows of dancers 

in the window, 

painted in 

club lights, 

moving to the beat 

at my back. 

(The patterns grow prettier 

with time, instead 

of ugly ballpoint scribbles.) 

Each colour-washed 

touch a treachery, 

tinged with 

sadness, 

and reflected in a pair 

of eyes across 

the room.