She loved to dance, the music didn't matter much It was the feeling, freedom, surrendering,
I think it was a way of communicating for her A switch of the hips, tap of the foot or snap of the wristΒ Illustrated her innermost feelings
I could never read dance So for me it was only ever an obscure but intimate moment shared
Spoken words are my tools and I amplified my pointed but spinning feelings often and in person,
With no music playing, no time to reflect or poetry to serve as a conduit, She would freeze and struggle in the immediacy of my spoken words,
These tools constructed small wonders leaving her still For all the wrong reasons
Dissonance grew beneath the roof of these wonders Breaching the walls, always at nightfall,
We were slaves to our mediums Our mediums enslaved us Β She never knew the steps I was shuffling in were mimicking hers, I didn't know the routine and her music muffled my words leaving them weak,Β
Hindsight, reason and honesty our last chance to dance and speak.