by Chris Farago.
I read of dreams and circularities,
And I can’t help but feel in this daze
That we’re dancing in mirrors, dancing in shadows,
Dancing in light. I touch your hand,
And it’s my own. One of us laughs.
Romance and mystery are entwined;
Horror stays away, in deference to the past.
I run through the list: beg, entreat, plead.
Let the stars give us light a moment longer;
Let my lips linger on your forehead a moment still;
Let us dance through infinity, dance in the maze,
Dance till our legs give way, till the floor falls away,
Till we find ourselves in the wine-addled sea,
Clinging to each other like green leaves
Shaken free by the storm.
I could harp on the cycles of time,
Say that I have seen your face
In the face of all others
And will continue to do so,
But false lineage bears no truth;
Those faces merely reflect each other;
Yours is the singularity
From which nothing else can be derived.
So, let us dance, for a year or a thousand,
Or none at all: the waltz plays on,
I dance, you dance, we dance.
I touch my hand, and it is yours.