The Dance of Equals

.
.
.
The days when my feet would swell
and my tenderness entwines with the air
are over.
We would dance like equals high on abandonment
amused by the languor of desires
spoken fluently by warm bodies.
.
.
I tiptoe gently and with grace to avoid your sidesteps,
backpedalling, retracing regret like crumbs to a trail.
My shoes are earth that grow grass and grapes
each finger pressing for wine, red and sour and aromatic,
both hands drawn like age to a relic
kneading soil and crumbs with acceding passion.
.
.
Not once would a side glance
come my way from you, as if I'd ignore the vines
growing on your arms like veins in this tight embrace.
Not once would a sampling of breath
caress the neediness on my cheek, as if I'd ignore the collar
of sweat gliding handsomely on your neck,
our angst like bees sinfully attracted to sweetness,
attracted to this force, this denudity.
.
.
The days pass and a dry spell later,
the dance of equals simmers,
foot upon foot of unweighted desire tumbling each other over
on the ground beneath my feet.
I keep myself awake
for the leaves, not the cold nor intimacy,
dowses the water on my skin, impersonates
the strolling of clouds or the swift breeze
that flagellates on my cheek like the pain of your passing.
.
.
There is hope in the yellow morning
a death embraced by the light,
a darkness that beleaguers the dance of equals,
the sunrise that evokes
a slow and torturous eroticism.
.
.
.