His Tap Dance.
I would like to be something else. On those cold
blush days. Where the moon is still up,
just undercutting the sun just so ever so lightly.
My neck is tangled with my spine and I curl
up upon the floor . Thinking of what the stars may
feel like just before they are about to slip into that nameless shadow.
Your hands I remember. Smelling of stale sea salt
and Old English. I sit still in the darkness of the hushed room
trying to strike a memory of every inch of your existence. Bit by bit
an inventory of your freckles and the dark eyebrows every hair
and every speck. Trying to somehow open you back up into
this moment and ask you to show me how you did that
thing with your feet. A tap then a little lift and then a twirl
that made the world stop, just because it was so
effortlessly beautiful.
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