“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. SomethingStrangeSpecialIn the stillness of his breath,The waterlike way he moves.He is making a dance.We are making a dance.”

“Are we alikeIn that in-betweenness?Can he see,When I smile my blue eyes backAt his brown ones,The country-city-woman-girlDancer, studentBewilderedUnbelongingYearning?”

“It is strange to hear my wordsRead back to me.I don't think I wrote themTo have them ever leave the page.I think I only writeWhat happens across my brainWhen my feet are too weary To dance anymore.”

“I hover over myselfWatching.Mind and body separated,Each in controlAs though there are two puppeteersWorking the strings of my marionette self.”

“Now, the edges of these memories sharpen.I see the cracks in the studio floor beneath her feet,The lack of turnout in her fifth position.”

“Wish my life were inside a bookSo I could turn to the ending,See if it is a love storyOr a gothic disaster.”

“Her body disappears like my voiceWhen I look too closely in the mirrorWithout the pages of a notebook, a penTo save me.”