The clubs fall tonight, the neon burns and the floor's heaving, a maze of bodies.
But that's just part of the challenge.
Then I see you across the other side of the floor.
As a new track starts up, you start to move.
I see a gap and I slide onto the other side of the floor.
My own hips sway, my own feet stepping.
And we start off so far apart, and we move so differently, but that is also just part of the challenge.
And we slowly move to the center of the floor.
And so do I, our magnetic poles seeking each other out.
And as we drift and as we move, our bodies seek each other's rhythm.
Where we once danced alone, my sway moves to match yours, your footsteps to match mine.
And we move closer, and we make our bodies' rhythms match each other's rhythms more.
Until we step and glide in harmony.
And where your body is, mine isn't.
And where mine slips aside, yours fills.
And even though we do not move identically, we so match each other's pattern that we are a single thing.
We shadow dance.
And a guy steps in and tear cardio as an honest, take-me-out-and-shoot-me-maternalist chest.
And he swings his arms, and he stamps his feet, and he comes between us, but we spin away, each to a different far corner of the floor.
And he stands there, his fake goat, like his fake chest hair, and I smile.
But the record stops, and another starts, and the beat changes, and I sway, and I move, and you sway, and you move, and we begin again.
Until, once more, we are just one single dance.
And we never speak, and we never touch, and we step, and we glide, and the neon burns.
We are shadows.
And we dance.
I hear them sometimes.
How this one will say to that one how they see us here so often.
How we never speak, never go, looking for the bar, and excuses to touch, to kiss, and to find some shed bed, they think.
But they say, each to the other, how long we must practice to dance our shadow stepping.
And I smile.
Because they don't have the front, the back, the east, the west, and north, the south, and up, down.
Because this is the practice.
So the truer dance can be.
And when the night is done, we don't find some shed cab, or walk some wood path together.
We're late, each alone.
And I walk, and I see the night again, each step in my head, each misstep in my head.
And I walk, and I dance again in my head, and I set those missteps right, and my sway matches your slip.
And your turn matches my spin, until it is there, the door.
And I unlock it, and I open it, and I go in, and you are there.
You are there, you are there, and your clothes are long since lost.
And I smile, but we do not say a word, and we do.
And I'll slip my skirt, and I'll button my blouse, and I'll kick off my heels and unsnap my bra.
And I'll slip my panties down, my stockings the same, and we'll wear skin.
And where the club was allowed music and bright neon, this place is our place.
And we need none of other.
The candles you lit before a ride will burn, and they will cast their flickers.
We begin to move, and as we move, we create new breezes to dance those flickers whose silent shadows cast about us.
And still we do not touch, for the brush of your hand's straight cock on my pussy hair is not a touch.
And if I spin, and the very tips of strands of my long hair brush your chest, and stir your own hard nipples,
then there is no touch either.
And we step, and we glide, and where you are I am not, and where I am you slip past.
And we are one shadow, one dance, one being, and each breath we take is a part of the dance.
Yours whispers, oh, my nipple, my nipple burns, as mine slips over your lip.
And your kiss sits pulsing as a paper whip, and stands between your thigh and my pussies,
your steps so briefly between my spread legs.
And as my hand drifts from some ear to some there, and my fingers flutter past your cock,
I curl into a brief grip that never touches you, and I slide along your length, and you stiffen more,
for our skins never kiss, not ever quiet.
And we shadow dance, and as we dance, as you are here, and I slip there, my cup gets wetter.
And as we dance, I see the beads of sweat pre-come almost from the tip of you.
And we dance, and we dance, and we move closer and closer, and more and more in harmony,
and we twine about each other, though still we never touch,
and we move closer and more close until our feet stand set, and only our bodies sway,
and the paper whip between us burns, and the fire that burns it is in us both,
and our skin stripped close at last kiss.
And we touch, and if you fall back, and your cock is so hot and high,
and I fall over you and take you and me, and I ride you on your thrust, then that is part of the dance.
Or if I fall, and the bed is near, and my legs spread, and my knees rise,
and your cock finds whichever hole it best fits for that moment of the dance,
then that is as our shadow wills.
For it is not the here or the there, the this or that, the tap of A and slot of B.
We are shadows, and we dance, and the candle flicker and the shadows about us cut us close,
and the music returns to a silent mound.
It is gasp and shudder, and we dance some more, until gasp shudder more, and we're not shadows.
We are shadow, and it is in us, and not even a whiff of paper separates our souls.
And we sleep, and there is not one part of you sleeping that is not a part of me,
and not one part of me that is not bound to you and part of you.
And we sleep, and we are us, until we awake, and the world takes us, and we do what we must do.
But we smile through all its doing, for we know the shadows are never far away.
The clubs fool tonight.
