“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 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.”

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

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

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

“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?”

“Am I lonelier nowThan when my sad imaginationHad him disappear?Heart torn,Loosing tiny dropletsOf sorrowNo tape can measureNo needle can mend.”