Her fingers form a prong pushing away an invisible form, thrusting and gyrating in rhythm, the tune I recall now to be hers.
A mix between a cheer, a call to arms, so easy for the tongue to clasp it, yet the heart is made wanting even more.
Her legs sweeping in a semi-circle, lifting the day's burdens away in elegance, in effortless effort.
I stand there, a ******, marveling more than I could ogle.
I found myself treading water, driven to her flame as a moth.
Her joints twisted and fueling the air around her, like trails that seemed to go on forever.

It's wrong. Flowers weren't meant to be picked. Beautiful things wither around me. I'm no good stay away as the moon envelopes her whole.

I can't do this. I want to.
But how is decrepitation in fashion nowadays? Her precipitation filled me with hope, that somehow, I wasn't wrong for this.

you'll always be a better dancer than me.