i don't look at you,
except to steal a sideways glance
from the corner of this dance club
while you lose yourself on the floor

but i write poetry of you,
secret words of secret feelings.
and the musk and dark becomes
a garden in provence.

i would set them to song,
if there is a melody here
that could set you to dance with me
to steal from you a touch.

but you are in another world
of dimmed light and senses
and i can steal only another glance
in my faraway, medieval love