i didn't want to do it again
but i worry, unstable footing, i will

every little lying, dancing, forward pitching step
bites my lip and grabs my waist, pulling me around
where the longest night for the next six months dies outside
we dance, me and the dark
slow-slipping, sure footed
velveteen hip weights and a hand in mine
and a promise of little more than dust
but i can be a little sure that sad poetic women get fucked
simultaeneous interpreters, small with big palms,
assure us. a pianist slept with a cellist
and gave birth to my small conforts

boys whose basements i played videogames in and tried to impress
have their own women to eg relief from, this sunday night
girlfriends who i've never met
quiet, yet, to me
seen only through a questioning screen that begs the question,
what you want with him (or he with you)

i want to drink and waltz but do so with the dark
while somewhere, silver fangs fuck soft wrist bellies
and ejaculate some kind of joy that i've had difficulty finding
but we've both read that book before
several times

several times, undecided, i quietly wooed
and when we found some common (in alan moore) you were already dancing
we were already dying

and i'll read that book again before it's over
before i change and melt
weaken my resolve of calm
and give in to my gut's demands, with a gentle two fingers on your wrist
to prove a point.

but, admittedly, you've admitted
to nothing but fidelity to, for me, a shadow girl
i would like you and i would like a drink
but only one's a gamble and the other one's relief
one to tuck me in at night, one to help me sleep
one painfully emphemeral, one thinly maskéd theif.