if she dances
it isn't with me
the slow grind of it
torture to my imagination
as I wonder who her
partner is
she is a vague shape
I see when I close my eyes at night
a memory of a dark figure
I recall from long ago
if he dances I barely perceive it
like the shadow in a
dark room
there yet not so complete
I can make it out in
the Twilight
the shape of who she dances
with vaguer still
no face to put to the shape
no voice to hear
only her siren song
set lingering in the mist
her eyes as deep as
mystic caves
glittering from some light beyond the dark
not sunlight or
moonlight
perhaps some light she emits
all from herself
to which men like me are drawn
like moths
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