The dance did not begin
or end with sex -
we just fell over each other, a spin,
an innocent trip in the darkness.
We held onto each other
to keep the illusion of sameness
from day to dawn: a changeless colour.
It took the hopelessness
out of despair - expressos
stretched our words to balance
tight-rope walkers' gains and losses,
only by staying in a trance
hour after hour. Our longing has become
the need carefully to tell
about life's last connundrum:
how we learn at last to fall,
to roll, and walk towards the night
with nothing in either hand
except the memory, still gripped tight,
of the indefinable, defined.
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