Did you think I would dance this dance
As one singular note rang out
One song and she there standing
Her arms raised in a pantomime of mine
How in that moment our mutual hate flared
She wanted me gone and here I was
Here I was dancing again to your song
It like your raised eyes on my face
A touch of memory flared, burned and died
Leaving me without accompaniment
I resisted my heart and stood cold
Immune to the passionate crescendo
Her eyes as she crushed and you gleaming
Victory to reach for my hands
Eager for me to cut in to take up a new partner
To bear the weight of your formidable guilt
And burn it away with my desperate passion
For you, for this song, for these words given
I let the music go stopping as all other motion blurred
Turned away and left you two to the floor.

By the Corbyhawk herself

How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall
I lift it over you toward other things?
Ah, I would like to lodge it
in the dark with some lost thing
on some foreign silent place
that doesn't tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you and me
takes us together like a bow's stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926) trans. Edward Snow