|"Terpsichore Muse of the Dance"|
Quim Abella Ojeda
When I open myself to her charms,
she twirls me about, enfolds me,
fills my ears with breathless words,
and I no longer care if we are seen embracing.
My will becomes but a far-off memory,
a vague sense of something to be done.
In these fleeting moments, I am hers alone,
a devotee to do with what she will.
She deftly maneuvers my limbs,
guides my motions like a puppeteer.
When her heart is full of love,
my feet skitter over the floor.
When she teases, I flirt along with her.
When she sings, light shines in my eyes.
When she aches, I crumble to the ground.
When she screams, I plead to the skies.
When she conjures ancient lore,
I am a vessel of ages past.
She recreates me in each moment,
interpreting me, molding me,
filling me out into a version of herself,
to show the world how she might look
if they had no ears to hear.