He was dancing the tapir's march.
I spun leafly in his draft, smiling.
In want of our first kiss, I wavered,
only to hear his apology; harsh.

His self hatred crumpled desire to doubt.
Saddened to silence, I offered no solace.
His singular refrain became shame mumbled.
Night strolls that once had music, now without.

I tried being subtle,
confronting his friends.
Every one evasive
claiming I'm not
his kind of person.

But he is my people.
We are rare
that makes us beautiful.
We hear Nyx's aria,
dancing the tango
others don't dare.

To live as cringe and shout, "Way-oh,"
was the tumble I longed to give.
To share in his joy, but oh, foul whinge
created friction and now I'm thrown out
of the life I did crave: a love like cabaret.

Now my voice hangs gossamer,
in those silver threads of moon.
Would he but echo my lone howl,
I would lick his face and croon;
chasing the scent of magic found.