Your own feet dance this movement to the real.
As I track back in steel stiletto heels,
We mind the gap between vintage ballroom music
And the quiet gaze that drives your ludic
Gait. Someday I'll tell you how live play feels.
But I can't chat, not here: my lips are sealed —
Since you can't dance and talk, our state reveals
The abandoned body, how in its silent antic
Your own feet dance this movement to the real.
How much the pixeled avatar conceals!
All lives require flesh. Playsure does appeal
Yet tango still demands a mutual panic
Of trust by touch. Not to be pedantic,
But think: our unmediated vals anneals
Your own feet to dance this movement to the real.
— femfatalatron, nyc
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