Watch
Bombay's streets at 3AM, Frank Sinatra and two figures in the distance. A dance that is not quite one.
"Sway me more," urges Dean Martin over the static. In a quiet corner of a behemoth city, shadows swing close, then wrench apart.
Giddy laughter spills over the curb and flows into the gurgling drain.
Steps answer each other with a polite ferocity. Gravel crunches, then flies.
The song walks arm in arm with the hushed murmur of a startled street.
Puddles of red gold gleam their approval.

Reflections slide effortlessly off blank window displays. Outside, an impromptu concerto of two. Inside, chiseled gods that look on bemused.

The quickening of breath, the hypnotism of the crescendo.

Where will this whirlwind care to halt?
When will this whirlwind care to cease?

Let limbs fly. Let blood surge, rise and soar.
Let your toe cut an arc where my heel begins.

Watch, as those two pass us by, a ceaseless tornado of longing and desire.
Watch, as they send tremors through the very ground you stand upon.
Watch, and let the chips fall where they may.
Watch them split from one to two, and dissolve into one.
Watch them rein in the crescendo with an incomparable grace.
Watch them overpower the music and coax it out of its savagery.
Watch them enslave. Watch them submit.
Watch them drink in the echoes of the last notes.

And as they glide apart, watch a knowing smile drift to the ground, much like a handkerchief sailing past sleepy doorways.