You,
are the clouds
when passions rage and I see mist in
my
fall

You are reflections, waving from
non-existent windows
and I break for you.

Neither within nor without;
neither breathless nor heady;

there the dance is,
not still or even skipping.

Try not to fix it,
to where the heartbeats are counting.
Except for that tangent, the perfect solace of stillness

There might be no dance. Oh! But,
there is only the dance.