Dance

Pockmarked, shaking, this skin trembles with a sign of something new.

I dance to the beat of the artist Circadia.

I've never been a knower of dance, but I dance, fearlessly, carelessly.

I am bound to this dance willingly, a constant reaffirmation of my binding every moment of this naked existence.

What is this dance?

I am clumsy, swaying to a pulse, and I forget my place in time all too often.

All too often, however, I am simultaneously lifted by an intangible beauty.

It is this lift, that comes to me through all shades of sun, and presses me against little moments of surprise, indifferent to my will;

I had not known of the existence of such beauty.

In mathematics, if I shouldn't find shame in discussing it during discourse of the heart, one seeks existence and uniqueness.

At the very moment this particular beauty overtakes my mind and spirit, stealing me of all memory, I find existence and uniqueness intrinsically linked and, what's more, embodiment in this beauty.

What's more!

I have found both embodiment and form in this beauty.

What is this dance? I struggle beyond measure to rationalize all of these words I speak, of these thoughts I possess, and of the impetus for my less-than-graceful dance.

I do however shelter this experience of beauty under one condensed word, shoved in like a glass begging not to be overfilled.

When this beauty shows an interest in opening its ears, and time refuses me permission to think brave thoughts anew, I will reveal that word to her, unfettered, shining, and still so delicate.

I will dance with you.