Everyone in the room
Must have been deaf and blind
To miss
   That quiet flutter –
        Of three thousand bees listening to jazz –
   That subtle shimmer –
       Of two hundred golden sparks, shooting out of a dying fire and ON FIRE themselves –
   That combustion in my heart –
      Which made all those New Years and Fourth-of-July's seem like practice runs.

They probably thought I was dancing to the music –  
       What music? –
I was listening to your breath
And dancing to your touch –
       As if my skin receptors were piano keys and with each touch your fingers came up with another
        note
But then the music stopped –
        I knew the song –
The fire died –
        I felt so cold –
It was the 1st of January or the 5th of July or September  or tomorrow –
        *I don’t remember.