The night turns. Everything is blue,
Or will be, when we remember it.
We are dancing quietly, no
Not dancing, but horizontal
On the floor, our hearts parallel placed
Our bodies shifting boundaries.
The blue touches your skin and
Shatters as though the darkness
Can consume everything
Except your light.
Nothing stays.
The next day,
The sofa is blue.
I remember a lamp where there was none,
Birds outside the window where there
Was no window, a summer fading when we were
Well into winter. I remember us laying,
Side-by-side where there was space for only one.
Laughter, in moments we were sleeping,
An empty house humming with life:
The pots, the pans, the running water
Demanding notice,
Colour seeping in in quiet waves as we went
About the separate tasks of living.
There was a choreographed dance there, the
Washing, the rinsing, the drying, the sweeping
The dousing, the dusting, the unmaking,
The careful patterns of everyday that we
Build around each other.
Long after the dance was over,
Our clothes match. This was unplanned,
This synchrony where our skin has disconnected
This mixing where we have pulled our threads apart.
We talk about the weather, politics, our careers,
Pretending as though we didn't set fire to our
Matchstick house, as though the embrace
Of dance hadn't become a vice grip choking
Our lungs until we could either dance or
Breathe.
It is always in a cafe, this conversation,
And this cafe is in my head. We haven't been
There yet, choosing neutral grounds, for the fear
Of seeing blue everywhere again.
This cafe is a strong pink, sometimes green, (colours inconducive
To remembering, colours that will not blur into blue).
This cafe is packed, but not tightly enough, and each time someone enters
It is through revolving doors with tinkling bells,
Alarm sounds to keep us awake, exits for one only.
Even in my dreams, I am afraid of dancing;
how much I desire it.
The day turns. I have scrubbed, cleaned, dusted, arranged flowers, toasted bread and poured out coffee.
I have sat opposite the door, no longer willing your return,
No longer fantasizing about groceries in your arm,
our imaginary cat rubbing against your leg.
I have turned on the music, watched the room
Fill up with lemon yellow, dusting over the blue
Softly, requesting exit.
I do not know at what moment it begins,
But before I know it,
I am dancing.
Or will be, when we remember it.
We are dancing quietly, no
Not dancing, but horizontal
On the floor, our hearts parallel placed
Our bodies shifting boundaries.
The blue touches your skin and
Shatters as though the darkness
Can consume everything
Except your light.
Nothing stays.
The next day,
The sofa is blue.
I remember a lamp where there was none,
Birds outside the window where there
Was no window, a summer fading when we were
Well into winter. I remember us laying,
Side-by-side where there was space for only one.
Laughter, in moments we were sleeping,
An empty house humming with life:
The pots, the pans, the running water
Demanding notice,
Colour seeping in in quiet waves as we went
About the separate tasks of living.
There was a choreographed dance there, the
Washing, the rinsing, the drying, the sweeping
The dousing, the dusting, the unmaking,
The careful patterns of everyday that we
Build around each other.
Long after the dance was over,
Our clothes match. This was unplanned,
This synchrony where our skin has disconnected
This mixing where we have pulled our threads apart.
We talk about the weather, politics, our careers,
Pretending as though we didn't set fire to our
Matchstick house, as though the embrace
Of dance hadn't become a vice grip choking
Our lungs until we could either dance or
Breathe.
It is always in a cafe, this conversation,
And this cafe is in my head. We haven't been
There yet, choosing neutral grounds, for the fear
Of seeing blue everywhere again.
This cafe is a strong pink, sometimes green, (colours inconducive
To remembering, colours that will not blur into blue).
This cafe is packed, but not tightly enough, and each time someone enters
It is through revolving doors with tinkling bells,
Alarm sounds to keep us awake, exits for one only.
Even in my dreams, I am afraid of dancing;
how much I desire it.
The day turns. I have scrubbed, cleaned, dusted, arranged flowers, toasted bread and poured out coffee.
I have sat opposite the door, no longer willing your return,
No longer fantasizing about groceries in your arm,
our imaginary cat rubbing against your leg.
I have turned on the music, watched the room
Fill up with lemon yellow, dusting over the blue
Softly, requesting exit.
I do not know at what moment it begins,
But before I know it,
I am dancing.
