Ballet

There is grace in the intimacy of exhaustion

They dance—

Men holding women holding men

In this intricate constellation of limbs

Becoming solitary souls intricately connected.

I remember desperation.

The theater is safe, isolated from a weary world

The flashlights say that this is all that’s real:

Dreams leaving bodies, becoming music

Fingers bend and wrap around the contours of your skin

As hollow cheeks let in the breath and blue lights summon sadness.

Evasive puddles run into each other

All part of the same shadow and same body

I sit in the back of the dancers’ eyes,

Watching silhouettes wring everything in the world,

And strangers smile with tired cries.