Last night, the ceiling above me
ached with dance.
Music dripped down the walls
like rain in a broken house.
My eyes followed the couple's steps
from one corner to the other,
pictured the press of two chests
against soft breathing, bodies slipping
in and out of candlelight.
And the hurt was exquisite.
In my empty bed, I dreamed
the record's needle
pointed into my back, spinning
me into no one's song.
