Someone comes to me, in the early morning hours. In early morning hours, when mist hangs on the horizons, with bare feet someone comes.

When dew drops stil cling to leaves, when the buds anticipate the sun's warmth, when birds still sit silently, someone comes to me.

With cool, smooth fingers and lazy eyes; with limbs delicately strong; with jasmine fragrances, o someone comes to me.

Who comes? Whose footsteps, whose whispers? Whose story comes to me? With the gentle morning, after the solitary night, with the promising sun, comes the promise.

They were hot, humid summer nights. We would dance at the studio on the Main at least once weekly. His embrace was strong, his movement controlled, decided and powerful. We would be chest to chest and in the soft seconds of stillness I would feel him grow even closer as he breathed.
His hair wet, his skin on the verge of damp, he would smell of summer rain on pebbles. How the nights would pass, the hours spun by round the floor and I was wrapped in a dream never to be fulfilled.
Although we would switch leads, there was nothing quite like begin led by him; caressing his neck, reaching down his firmly defined back, matching his every movement. As we stepped round the room nothing mattered save for the moments in his company.

And so the summer nights passed, till at its height when the days creeped into our nights, his embrace grew even closer. That night he was different. He was slower, even more attentive. His right hand roamed more than usual and his breath caressed my neck. We danced this way till dawn's breezes came stealthily, filling the red curtains of the studio.
Once the milonga ended he walked me home - a few blocks down the Main.

An awkward silence at my door. An invitation unsure. A welcome smile. Up the stairs, through the door - a surprise as his kiss came softly. His fragrance, his body firm and enveloping, his voice a whisper in my ear. He knew not what he did, he suspended all thought and lived his moment as fully as I felt it.

No words can describe the morning sun filtering through lace curtains onto us as we lay. As our breathing slowed, slowly we drifted off to a sleep in a satiated Montreal morning.

I dreamt of her then. Her beautiful face, her delicate skin beneath my fingers. In her eyes were tears.