Per Chance To Dance

I'm not at all in person what you might gather from my babbling I would be.

I can remember vaguely, as it seems, a love past in my life for which the world turned, and angels envious of me yearned.

The fondest of them all were times too few and far in-between. I held her in my arms, half at length, proud and headlong. Versed in each other’s eyes, poised quite statuesquely, feeling the music move from the floor into our bones, to be again only shown in the circle that was our home.

If I were inclined to lead, or too naïve myself, and followed, I can't remember. No matter how many our waltzes repeated. I remember not the tunes or motions to and fro, nor any other onlookers watching what must have been the quintessential spot light show.

Aura surrounding us, our vessel to be again alone. Let us be intimate, things spoken of are said without words, our selfish needs, per chance to dance, our loves and lives we were to weave.

What engraved themselves on my insides, outwardly was the sweat in my one palm, and height above where I should not be of my other.

I recall her fragrance of that night, my left foot and her reassuring quiet laugh. The impassioned struggle to keep my distance, my prayer the tempo to slow, how time is the devils only friend.

On the patio a moth chilled in the night, hovers around a candles warm glow and light. Everything she said, was promised and whispered. Every time I thought myself so close to my heaven, the rose in her hair, the simple fact that I could not pay her so much deserved attention...