Interlude: Steps

Touching him makes me feel alive. There is no better way to put it.
With his arms around me, I am safe even in motion. I am beautiful. I am kinetic. And part of me is eternally his.
But he, I am sure, sees me as nothing more than I am: a fumble-footed dance partner with queer and standoffish ways.

I weigh the task at hand against the desire to press my face against his, and-
Knowing what I know, of how my heart works, I choose the task at hand instead.

Art lives on eternally. Love, I find, does not.