The Dancer

He comes from the west. Sun spilling from his skin, collecting in small pools on my sheets--dirty with seasons of exchange.

Our throats dangle off the edge of the duvet. I can’t tell his hair from mine, strands of brown and gold and brown and gold. Unruly souvenirs from the years we’ve spent sifting through songs, searching for meaning in movement and movement in meaning.

When he stands on the opposite side of the room, I can feel his hands on me. He is consumed by a radical artist on screen that turns his eyes gray. Eyes that could be mine. His body could be mine, if I were a ship.

Photo By: Kelly Balch