I don’t know your name
but I know your body,
how you move and turn and trace
the story of your life before my eyes.
I feel your passion, your grace,
the wisp of tenderness
you weave upon the air.
And after, when I change
my clothes from red and gold
into streetwise black, I smile,
and fleeting, meet your gaze:
Should we talk and get to know
How do you do – and what?
Should we risk the conversational moves
and dare to find each other boring?
Or should we leave alone and let
the beauty of our dance speak for itself?