Swings of a dance,
the tap, and the movement
take the sleep of a girl.
Creativity in its crevices.

When the dancing is over it is followed by the darkness of the drawing hands.
Hands that serve her wrist and nothing else.  And when you wonder if the souls are ready to take you,
the crisis is over but the mania begins.

Letting the waves reach me, I've let people go in fear of my own luck to let them drown. When the doctor tells you it's not you but a little man inside of you, you look back at those you've hurt.

Wondering if, If I met this little man before those I've loved dearly would I have loved them differently?