A Dance

A breath and the dance begins.
The floor is white with strips of black, the perfect place
for the dancers to waltz like
shadows
on a wall.

Music pulses, slow and heavenly, as they close their eyes and whirl
through the gardens of Buckingham Palace or stroll
through the drizzle of a rainstorm in the empty streets of Milan.
Still, the dance will continue, the dancers knowing they might never stop,
might always be in perpetual motion
because they long to move.

My fingers dance on the keys
as if for all eternity.