I feel his arm Lightly Over me. He takes one of my outstretched hands. Draws it beneath my stomach. "One more time..." This is not sex, Not friendship. Something Strange Special In the stillness of his breath, The waterlike way he moves. He is making a dance. We are making a dance.
What was true and solid begins to slide, dissolve. Your thoughts unravel faster than a satin ribbon Whose edge hasn't been burned Until you sit amidst a tangle of limp, pink threads, Unable to reason At all.