Magique minuit pour la danseuse francaise

"midnight magic for the French ballerina"

Music floats on the breeze.
She sways to the beat.
She throws her open palms up in the moonlight.
he watches her every move.

Her toes caress the floor.
She spins and twirls in the haze.
Her dress flows around her.
he takes a step toward her.

Her leotard hugs every curve.
Her slippers accentuate her elegant pointe.
They make a soft sound against the dusty dance floor.
he stands up.

She rises on her toes.
And lifts on leg from under her.
She curls her leg around her in a sweet arabesque.
he holds his breath.

Her arms are round above her.
She slowly relaxes her leg.
And lowers her arms into a graceful pliet.
he reaches out to her.

She swiftly turns and gazes out the window.
Her hair is silver in the moonlight.
Her breath is visible in the chilly night air.
he touches her arm.

She freezes.
She looks at the man.
She cries.

No one has ever touched her.

Ever noticed her.

Ever loved her.

'You're wrong,' He says.

He was the first to touch her.

The first to hold her.

The first to love her.
and the last.