I can't see you

All the movement in my
mind is
his. All day he
dances, a slow, silent struggle
or a frenzied flight
from reality. His feet
strike the wind and he's
carried away, dancing like
the sun crawling over the horizon.
He dances like a song through your
head that just won't leave,
dancing circles, lines, and
melodies.
He dances rising up like
steam, without possessing
the fading quality. His dance
sticks like chocolate
to pudgy young fingers.
He dances like the flick
of a paintbrush, he dances
like the scrape of the chisel held
in the most masterful of
hands.
He dances like the sway of
feminine hips and the
arc of masculine muscle.
He dances with
no regard to me, with
no regard to you, and that's why
all the movement
in my mind
is his.