i only see her when i'm drunk, you know
when my intoxication throws me headlong into
that space between missing you and missing the heat
of somebody, anybody, burning on the altar.

our dance is not as elegant, because she doesn't know
the footwork like you do. the arc of her body isn't as near
and her lines aren't as clean and precise.
we know the steps, though; we know those.

but after we move in time for a song or two,
after the crescendos and the sustained major peak,
i remember, bowing and panting as though before an audience
that she'll never move me like you.