bit∙ter∙sweet \bĭt'ər-swēt\ vb:

our fingers
forgetting whose hands they belonged to
found refuge from confusion
in one-another's soft contours

as we stood under sleeping light bulbs
like dark buds awaiting spring
and the ambient night pressing
through our silent space
the only sounds
your breath
whispered openness
and the shy song of your lips
touching a single note to my neck

this motionless dance aching not to end
perhaps knowing
once the music was over
it would never play again