I could never bear to see her dancing.
The very air exhales while she is dancing.
Raindrops wander down a darkened window.
No mind, no meaning, still, it looks like dancing.
Weeping awake is not the same as dreaming.
A snowflake’s swirl is not the same as dancing.
Tonight the liquid moonlight eddies, flows.
Somewhere, I imagine, she is dancing.
Conrad waits. What else is there to do?
Love is grace, and grace is only dancing.