She told me I danced well,
Should dance more often.
No one else has ever said so.
But she thought I had a sense for rhythm, when I took her to the street to waltz at 2am.

Perhaps it was raining, as it often rains in philadelphia; rain is falling now, the static of it constant on the bedroom panes. The water has a sense for rhythm.

Perhaps it wasn't late as 2am, but dark from clouds, from rain or snow, some weather poor enough to keep off passersby. We dancing in the light of streetlamps, in the road in the maybe weather of a night or early morning.

We parted, though I don't remember when, or where I went - where was I living then? Was it before south philly, was I young, was I alone or sneaking out from someone else, was dancing secret? Is this the bed I slept in, or another?

Steam billowed from a vent like fog. And where is she? Whose bed is hers?
In all her other nights I am not dancing.