DANCE

We dance our little deaths. We press our lips
to any flesh comes near. Our hair, our sweat,
trailing like jewelled wire. Words we forget.
Our language is the grinding of our hips

against another’s thighs. A smile, a glance,
a wink, a tear, a lick, our common tongue.
We’ll change our partners before very long
perhaps we have no lover save the dance

it’s gone past two, the moon the stars are high
light dazzles and I blink. She disappears
and I don’t care, and dance. Perhaps it’s years
perhaps it’s moments. Darling, you and I,

dance lonely nights on this and other floors.
You’ll never be my true love, nor I yours.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to DANCE

  1. roadnotes says:

    This is beautiful and familiar.

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