again i thought i saw you there. i wondered when you’d cut your hair. i thought, no, it isn’t her, you’re seeing things all wrong. but she glanced like you’ve lanced and they were playing your songs as i craned to the corner where your smile belongs.
so i danced, dar[t]ing looks through crowdshift screen, mocking my own makesh[r]ift moonings, the mistakes i meant to mean. i smiled sour to myself, sardonically sarcastic, deriding hopes disguised as doubts, decrying my in[side]s & outs, draconian and drastic.
i moved half-close; i backed three-fourths away. i decided then this wasn’t a night for incisive decision, that tonight i wouldn’t tap and let her turn [in]to you, or not; i’d keep my distance, keep the potential in play. i kept the-you-who-she-might-be on the edges of my vision, growing hungry and heady and hot as i merged with the mass of masking movement on the floor. i kept you on my verge, writhing indistinct there inbetween each slide and surge, and caressing crimson flares instead of stumbling over stares, i danced inside that doubtful dark, a new way to adore.
when the music stopped, the lights went red to white; i saw her full face, felt both foiled and free as i perceived the motto of my night: dans la nuit, tous les chats sont gris . . . but sometimes grey is red, and cats’ long t[r]ails are only tales i tell inside my head. so i changed, and rearranged, and came to peace with this, instead:
dans ma cœur, avec sa fondéluge, tous les chats peuvent être toi, si elles seulement sont rouges.