An Ode to Muses to Euterpe

Poetry of the Skin

I can't dance I dismay,
But watch what my hips say.
You can't move me while you listen,
Yet, I see the sweat on your brow glisten.
Perhaps, we had lessons,
Steamy and hot, in multiple sessions.
But why not with each other?
Perhaps, to outdo one another?
We say we have no movement,
But why in this language, are we fluent?
Many words are left in mistranslated speech,
Our bodies say the rest when for each other, they reach.
Paint my skin like Van Gogh,
Before my mind enters this tango.
My lips you touch,
My one psychological crutch.
Is this a war not spoken?
I am your battlefield, as long as my heart is not broken.