She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.

Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.

I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.

All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.

She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.

I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.

Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.

She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.