The hand curved around her waist
is consummated by his naked eyes,
feathering her lips.
I rehearse my study and tame my sight,
for their swaying language is not unknown
to the tongue I danced with.
Delicate are their steps,
like the burst of buds in summer;
I fight wishing beyond the restraints.
Wishing mine was the heart
with a hollow twitch;
Wishing mine was the skin
rising plumes of white smoke.
But my lips have been rehearsed by the soul
to stay the waltzing scream.
The inevitable turn comes,
that his hands too eagerly thrash the pace,
she has fallen and faulted on the floor
and I find myself even wishing
that I was the mess he picked up instead.