The Memory of the Dance

In the solitude of the night dance,
framed against the whine of the
motorcycle at midnight, the
pen and rod settling by the cored
apples, comes the memory. Each
pearl, each thought, each image
of the carpeted floor, the precise
marks of your teeth. Lips embrace,
mouth suckles its pale target. In
the end we lie on the floor and
listen to the pipes churn. In the end
we giggle and pull each other up.
We still smell each other in our
hair, grasp desperately at each
other's hands. We will never be
full enough.