There are things you do for me, and then there are the things you do for yourself.  They bleed

There are things you do for me, and then there are the things you do for yourself. 

They bleed into one another, sometimes, in the Venn diagram of our lives. A crossover that is never quite one or the other, but always more one than the other. You dance for me, in the way that you dance for me. It’s sex in motion, the curve of your hips tracing their own curves in the air, an infinite recursion, just as your hands trace the same lines. You dance to impress me. You dance to arouse me. You dance for me. 

But you dance for yourself, too. I love to watch you like that, when your primary thought isn’t to tease or titilate, but instead merely to enjoy the music, and let it translate through your body. You never played an instrument, but to say that your body isn’t played, that the music isn’t just as much coming from you as dictating the beat that you follow, would be erroneous. It may be factual, but that doesn’t make it right. 

You dance for me. You dance for you. We meet somewhere in the middle.