Cheers

A tango is unfolding its musical caresses in the room.
A man is dancing alone, the room is his very own palace.
He dances, ever so joyful, a smile appears to be carved on his lips.
There is not another soul in this room, also devoid of furniture.
Left and right, here and there, ever dancing, ever smiling.
His hands are grasping the phantom of his passion, his Muse.
She is not there, yet she is the only person for him.
He looks in her eyes only. Smiling. Dancing. Taking her with him.
Slowly, passionate, then faster, faster, elegantly.
The music has no source, no orchestra, it is alive, only in this room.
Only in this room, only this man and his muse, ghosts of his heart.
And then the music stops, he looks at her and leans forward to place the softest of his kisses on her plump, vivid red and spectral lips, and she cannot and will not dare disagree.
He takes her by the hand, walks toward the buffet of his soul.
There is only one bottle of wine and two tall glasses.
His smile always on his lips, he hands her one of the glasses.
He opens the bottle.
His wrist is slit.
She smiles with grace.
He pours some wine into her glass.
The floor is now crimson with his life.
He pours some into his own glass.
The glass is filled with his blood.
He raises the glass.
His bare hand is the color of red got ashes.
"A toast!", he announces.
She raises an eyebrow, still smiling.
"To love.". He is smiling also.
She nods.
He drinks out of his own glass.
He drinks of his own blood.
And thus the audience applauds, ghosts and images, all drenched in red life, Haunts of this enchanted night.
They raise their glasses and so the ball ends.